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U    IIIIII.6 


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/2 


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Image 


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Bibliothdque  nationale  du  Canada 


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empreinte. 

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et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  n^cessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  mdthode. 


rrata 
to 


pelure, 
Id 


3 


32X 


1 

2 

3 

1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

<^*/0///c.  eM,aiMtaw 


THE 


Masqde  of  Minstrels 


AND  OTHER  PIECES,  CHIEFLT 


IN  VERSE. 


BY  TWO  BROTHERS. 


BANGOR . 
Benjamin  A.  Burk,  Printek. 

1SS7. 


161448 


i/^' 


Entiiid  actortliiij;  to  Art  of  Conjfrt'ss,  in  the  year  1SS7,  by 

ARTHUR  J.    LOCKllART, 

In  the  OHlif  of  the.  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington.  !>.  C. 


.s:@)N- 


s^ 


«=^f^ 


^^osu 


AUTHOR'S   INTRODUCTORY   NOTES. 


Scan  sharply,  Reader!  then,  if  thy  sijjht  j!ratlicrs  no  haziness,  if  thy  heart 
y-ives  no  consent  to  wiiat  thou  seest,  turn  iroxn  these  unprofitable  pages. 
For  thee  tliere  are  l)ettcr  books,  in  plenty. 

Or,  if  thou  art  one  of  the  critic  folk,  whose  business  it  is  to  help  or  hinder 
in  the  jjreat  hijrlnvay  of  letters;  I  would  say  this:  So  many  reasons,  not 
patent  to  the  author,  may  be  found  for  approving  or  condemning  what  is 
here,  its  fate,  with  you,  cannot  be  forecast.  Read  several  pages  candidly, 
lH'ft)re  speaking:  if,  indeed,  you  intend  to  honor  us  with  your  notice.  Ileiein 
we  neither  erect  a  shield  against  censure,  nor  indite  a  petition  for  praise. 

And  ye,  who  are  friends,  (for  to  you  I  have  commended  these  uncertain 
musings,  the  solace  of  many  an  hour  lived  during  the  past  fifteen  years,) 
allot  a  quiet  perusal  to  this,  my  book  of  songs.  I  have  taken  cf>unsel  once  of 
myself,  and  again  of  the  fancied  V  ok,  many  times,  or  I  should  never  have  set 
about  the  labor  and  expense  of  printing. 

Alick  Lke,  by  the  first  plan  and  intention,  originated  at  an  early  date,  and 
has  had  later  touches.  It  goes  to  show  the  eflect  of  an  unconquercd  sorrow  in 
an  aimless  life.  Professor  John  Wilst)n*s  story,  '■'Ltiry  Of  The  /'olJ," 
furnished  the  suggestion. 

ARTHUR  J.  LOCKHAKT. 

Ea.st  Corinth,  Maine,  July  J5th,  1SS7. 


^ 


^"^^^^^^ 


■^ 


CONTENI'S.' 


PAGE. 

Proem.... 5 

The  Masque  of  Minstrels 7 

Alice  Lee 17 

At  The  Grave  of  a  Poet 57 

The  Enthusiast 65 

Burns  Remembered 73 

An  Afterthought 77 

A  Dream  of  Heaven 79 

The  Prophet S6 

Destiny S9 

Praise 92 

Jerusalem 93 

Snow  in  October 95 

On  Islesboro 100 

Guilt  in  Solitude 103 

*Sir  Richard  Grenville 106 

Morning iii 

'''Bird  on  the  Sea 113 

Our  Heavenly  Fatherland 118 

To  M^  Father lai 

Acadie . 13,^ 

Mv  Place 12S 

'''The  Retrospect 1 29 

Gaspereau 143 

An  Interlude 154 

MOODS   AND   FANTASIES. 

Aduma 157 

A  Fantasy 160 

'^Talking  Dv  the  Sea 161 

On  Lake  Winnepisaukee 164 

The  Hill  166 

The  Maiden  Eve 169 

Hearts , 170 

Arrows 172 

Ambition ,...   173 

Song 1 75 

Shelley 176 

May 177 

"'Wordsworth iSo 

Contemplation iSi 

A  Spring  Son^ 1S3 

The  Prologue  in  Heaven 1S5 

*In  Solemn  Vision 1S7 

"'Keats 191 


I.  The  poems  indicated  by  an  asterisk  were  written  by  my  brother,  Bur- 
ton W.  Lockhart,  now  of  Sumeld,  Conn. 


CONTENTS. 


iii 


An)(el8 • 193 

Awakeninif >94 

Ili^hand  Low 19(1 

A  Slay  Son jf 19S 

The  Violet 99 

A  Rnundy  Cheer  for  the  Farmer aoo 

Rydalmere 30i 

(rod  in  Nature aoj 

Frostwork        305 

*Thc  Singer 3o6 

A  Poet's  Wish aoS 

The  Daisy 209 

*Song 311 

Silent  Speech 213 

Love's  Beautiful  Sphere  2\± 

Aurora .••• 3io 

Kain  Heard  at  Early  Morning 3iS 

To  Thee  The  Love  of  Woman  Hath  Gone  Down 319 

Memories  of  *'  II  Penseroso" .•  331 

Song • 334 

Unseen  Visitants 325 

*Lines,  Written  in  an  Album 337 

Summer 33S 

Love  in  Solitude 3ji 

To  a  Strawberry  Blossom 333 

Goethe 336 

The  Lady  In  The  Picture 337 

With  Burns 339 

Solitude 241 

Acrostic 343 

Song 244 

Ky  The  Riverside 346 

To-Morrow 349 

To  S.  1 251 

A  Monodv.. 353 

Stella  ...". 254 

(filbert  Haven 256 

On  Bishop  Janes 259 

The  Burial  of  Garfield 360 

'^In  Memoriam  262 

A   Poet 264 

Our  Three  Sonsji^** 266 

Dirge 269 

SONGS  OK   MEMORY    AND   HOME. 

Proem 273 

Departed  Days 274 

♦Evening  At    Home     277 

The  Children's  Voices 2S0 

Sister  Alice 2S1 

?:choofan  Old  Ballad 2S3 

Vacation 284 

I  n  Absence 2S« 

♦The  Old  Home 287 

Baby's  Future 293 

The  Boys  in  Winter 29; 

♦A  Home  Song 20S 


iv 


CONTENTS. 


Hills  of  Minas ,^oo 

Assurancf 30J 

V'iile .^05 

To  Mv  Mother ,P7 

Tliu  Marriage  Morning 309 

A  Madrigal. 311 

^Fragment  of  An  £pistle 31  i 

Evey 3'4 

Wislies 310 

*A  Prayer     317 

Kecognition 31S 

The  Fadeless  Beauty 319 

Waiting 321 

The  Answer 323 

'''To  Ahbie  in  Florida 324 

A  Now  Year  Reverie 326 

Na;nia 329 

Angel-Whispers 331 

SONGS    OF     ASPIRATION     AND     KNl>EAVOK. 


Auxiliurn  Ab  Alto 335 

Good  Cheer 33S 


Up 


340 


''■Life's  Noblest  Heights , ....  342 

Coming.... 343 

A  Cry  from  the  I' nemplr)ve(l  Laborer 345 

The  Wine 34S 

The  Ilefornier's  Hymn 350 

Better '351 

A  Wish  For  Remembrance 355 

Dens   Descensus 358 

The  Universal  Hope 3?x) 


■  30.1 

■  305 
307 

•  309 
311 
3'J 

31ft 

3>7 
3«S 

3 '9 

32' 

323 

324 

326 

329 

as 

340 
342 

343 

345 

34S 

3SO 

351 

355 

35S 

3''o 


' 


cMic^j.Jf^l 


Cl/it', 


PROBM. 

J^OVER  of  mouiitnin.  field  and  grove, 

Hojirt-iioiirlsh'd  song,  and  chord  sublime; 
Thou  wilt  not  scorn  the  steps  that  aimless  rove, 
Nor  the  fond  cherisher  of  his  own  rhyme  ;— 

Who.  facing  to  the  new-ris'n  sun, 

Or  following  his  westering  way, 
Siiigs;  or  in  shaded  nooks,  where  clear  brooks  run 
In  webbed  light,  fashions  forth  an  idle  lay;— 

From  opening  buds,  and  bird-tones  sweet, 

Who  treasureth  harmonious  cheer; 
And  to  himself  all  carols  doth  repeat. 

Striving  to  win  th^  refined,  fastidious  ear. 

And,  haply,  'tis  not  all  iu  vain 

lie  broodeth  minstrel-pages  o'er, 
As  he  would  emulate  full  many  a  strain 

Dear  to  the  Muse,  on  the  Past's  golden  shore ; — 

That  he  has  mused  on  many  a  rhyme. 

And  many  a  graceful  fancy,  penned 
In  memory's  olden,  hallowed  mornlng-fime, 

By  unrenown'd  ones — brother,  sister,  friend : — 

Whose  voices  trembled  while  they  sung. 

Wlio  l)athed  with  sweetest  tears  their  lyres. 
O.  my  faint  heart!  their  faces  still  are  young: 

Bright  are  their  setting  suns,  their  evening  fires ! 

Perchance  some  friend,  with  kindly  thought. 

May  these  obscure  memorials  trace. 
When  he  who  loved  the  Muse  so  well,  sees  not 

The  cheering  smile  on  Natin-e's  morning  face. 

Strains  long-remember'd,  oft  admired — 

All  plainings  and  rejoicings  clear — 
Whatever  moved  him  earliest,  or  inspired. 

He  deems  have  Jeft  their  >velcoiqe  in^press  here, 


n 


THK    MASQUE   OK    MINSTRELS. 


|HEN  came  a  company  of  wandering  minstrels,  without 
singing  robes  and  garlands,  up  to  the  gate  of  the 
castle,  which  was  opened  readily  enough  to  receive  them. 
They  were  now  onlj'  in  the  court-yard;  but  they  went  on 
— their  harps  in  their  hands — strengthened  by  the  counte- 
nances of  one  another,  and  unabashed  by  the  mighty  band 
who  had  gone  in  before  them.  They  were  late  in  coming, 
and  the  choir  of  singers  was  already  full ;  but  of  this  they 
thought  no  ill,  and  when  questioned  of  their  act,  they  ans- 
wered with  a  proud  humilitj\  They  were  near  the  door  of 
the  high  hall,  and  in  answer  to  their  summons,  it  was  thrown 
open,  so  that  a  herald  stood  before  them. 

HERALD. 


And  who  be  ye? 


FIRST    MINSTREL. 


We  be  also  of  the  Minstrelsy ;  we  be  Apprentices  of  the 
Muses;  Secretaries  of  Love;  .Slaves  of  Beauty;  Apostles 
of  Desire;  Disciples  of  Trutli ;  Children  of  Nature;  Fol- 
lowers of  Aspiration;  Servants  of  Song.  We  be  uncrowued 
kings  and  queens  in  the  realms  of  Music,  coming  to  claim 
and  win  our  sceptres.  Crowns  have  been  won  and  worn  by 
others.    Admit  us. 


r 


8 


THE  MASQUE  OF  MINSTBELS. 


HERALD. 

Nay ;  ye  claim  too  largely.  Whose  sons  be  ye,  and  whose 
daughters? 

SECOND  MINSTREL. 

We  be  sons  and  daughters  of  fathers  who  were  never 
cowards,  and  of  mothers  who  were  never  ashamed;  who 
loved  valor  and  virtue  even  as  their  children  love  music. 


HERALD. 


And  whence  came  ye? 


THIRD    MINSTREL. 

Out  from  the  place  of  Light,  lying  along  tlie  slcirt  of 
Shadow;  from  silent  spaces  of  the  Divinity;  and  again, 
from  the  courts  where  the  Stars  give  voice,  as  well  as  shin- 
ing; and  in  all  our  journey  the  way  has  been  from  joy. 
through  sorrow,  to  peace,  and  often  along  a  land  of  loveli- 
ness and  singing. 

HERALD. 

Hast  thou  a  message  for  the  soul  ?  What  wouldest  thou 
say? 

THIRD   MINSTREL. 

O  Soul!  listen  to  that  divinity  which  is  within  thee — the 
voice,  silent  before  the  sceptic  sneer,  and  that  cannot  be 
heard  by  doubting  Indifterence;  and  listen  to  the  Divinity 
who  is  above  thee — the  greater  than  thou — that  calleth  unto 
thee.  Be  not  thou  incredulous  unto  the  Voice,  not  disobe- 
dient unto  the  heavenly  Vision.  If  thou  dost  not  listen,  to 
obey,  thou  art  lost.  Thou  hast  been  led  to  belie  thy  nature, 
to  deny  thy  identity :  thou  wert  meant  to  harbor  with  the 
archangel ;  but  thou  crouchest  with  the  dog,  and  crawlest 
with  the  worm.  Thou  hast  not  feet,  alone,  on  which  to  halt, 
and  stumble;  thou  hast  also,  wings,  wherewith  to  fly. 
Thou  carriest,  within  thyself,  a  touchstone  and  an  alembic ; 
thou  canst  transmute  tears  to  jewels;    thou  canst  force  a 


THE  MASQUE  OF  MINSTBELS. 


9 


tvere  never 
med;  who 
music. 


ii  skirt  of 
UKl  again, 
II  as  shin- 
from  joy. 
of  loveli- 


dest  thou 


thee— the 

uiuot   be 

i)iviuity 

oth  unto 

t  disobe- 

listen,  to 

i  nature, 

with  the 

cravviest 

to  halt, 

to    fly. 

lembic ; 
force  a 


»l 


sweet  life-blood  from  the  granite  rock,  Difficulty,  and  make 
its  huge  bulk  thy  stepping-stone  to  Power.  Thou  canst  out- 
watch  thy  sorrows,  and  with  joyous  eyes  see  the  bubble- 
stars  melt  on  the  flood  of  daybreak ;  with  steadfastness  and 
patience  thou  mayest  abide  thy  shadowy  terra, 

••  smoothing  the  raven  down 
Of  darkness,  till  it  smiles." 

Forsake  all  thy  low  ideals ;  cast  off  the  outworn  plumage 
of  thy  spirit;  seize  thine  inalienable  right;  possess  all  that 
belongs  to  thee,  from  the  lowest  vale  of  Tempe  to  the 
empyrean.  Of  thougiit,  and  hope,  and  courage,  and  high 
emotion,  take  thy  allotted  portion.  So  near  art  thou  allied 
to  the  gods,  thou  canst  do  what  thou  wilt.*  Let  no  one  do 
thy  work,  or  claim  thy  crown.  Strike  glad  hands  with  thj'^ 
appointed  duties;  and,  above  all,  be  true  and  pitiful,  for 
such  is  God,  who  is  thy  Father.  Then,  O  Soul !  it  shall  be 
well  with  thee ! 

HERALD. 

Methinks  thou  speakest  well,  concerning  this  matter. 
What  will  ye  here? 

FIRST    MINSTREL. 

We  would  enter  in  to  stand  before  our  liord  and  Lady, 
among  the  accepted  kings  and  queens  of  song. 

HERALD. 

What  title  have  ye?  All  who  stand  within  have  shining 
fronts  and  far-heard  voices.  How  come  ye  without  robes 
:    (1  garlands? 

SECOND    MINSTREL. 

We  have  harps  and  voices,  well  attuned;    what  ask  ye 

I.    So  close  is  grandeur  to  our  dust, 
So  noar  is  God  to  man  ; 
When  Duty  wliispers  low:    'Thou  must,' 
The  youth  replies.  'I  can.'— Emerson. 


10 


THE  MASQUE  OF  MINSTRELS. 


beside?    Came  any,  within,  having  more,  at  the  earliest? 
Admit  us. 

HERALD. 

How  can  ye  be  lieard?  Their  voices  come  together  lil^e  a 
rush  of  melodious  storms,  and  like  the  roll  of  thunder  over 
the  flow  of  mightj'  rivers;  tlieir  harps  have  the  music  of 
winds  and  ocean  waves  in  their  strings  of  gold.  Ye  will  be 
as  a  chirping  brood  of  wrens  in  a  forest  of  nightingales. 


THIRD   MINSTRP:L. 

We  ask  not  to  be  heard  on  our  first  entrance :  we  will  wait 
for  the  eye  of  our  Lord  and  I^ady:  we  ask  only  to  sit  at 
their  feet  who  wear  the  robes  and  garlands,  and  drink  their 
spirits  in  mirthful  or  mournful  music,  till  we  have  learned 
CO  be  worthy. 

HERALD. 

How  consist  your  lofty  spoken  thoughts  with  this  humil- 
ity? 

SECOND    MINSTIiEL. 

We  think  not  highly  of  ourselves  in  Art,  but  feel  the  bent 
of  our  nature.  These  great  have  known  themselves,  before 
they  were  known  of  others,  and  this,  reverently;  for  the 
greater  are  around  them,  and  above  them,  the  unapproach- 
able, which  beckoneth  unto  us.  We  dare  not  be  false  to 
ourselves,  to  come  with  trembling,  professing  a  base 
modesty,  since  we  be  genuine.  It  is  only  feeble  and  impo- 
tent singers  who  come  to  their  failures  :  and  who  but  he  who 
only  pretends  himself  strong,  deserves  to  fail? 

HERALD. 

But  dread  ye  not  the  woes  of  the  minstrel?  Why  will  ye 
«ing,  {)>«''l  wrung  bosoms,  and  wretchedness  and  hunger? 
The  c  ju  of  song  have  often  been  unhappy.    Remember 


THE  MASQUE  OF  MINSTRELS. 


U 


le  earliest? 


the  Bard  of  Brlstowa;*  think  of  him  wlio  dwelt  on  Doon,* 
and  mingled  sigliing^  with  liis  clearest  warbles.  Ask  of  him 
who  sang  of  Paradise.''  and  the  chanter  who  painted  Virtue 
as  never  before."*    Let  such  pains  as  these  be  spared. 

FIRST    MINSTREL. 

Tlie  portion  of  the  bard  is  liis;  it  has  been  given.  Great 
pains  and  joys  are  in  his  n.ature.  He  cannot  forbear,  for 
singing  is  not  liis  sorrow,  but  his  release.  He  must  be 
scorclicd  by  an  inward  lire  if  he  sing  not;  for  music  is  his 
call  and  vocation.  Yet  call  not  the  minstrel  unhappy;  nor 
think  him  miserable,  whose  outward  lot  is  hard.  Must  we 
choose  again,  our  choice  were  liere.  Ours  are  great  immun- 
ities. Joyous  is  Spirit!  Wondrous,  this  necromancer. 
Imagination,  with  his  vivid,  far-seeing  eyes,  with  whom 
Reason  shall  sit.  upon  an  equal  throne. 

And  if  some  bard  be  foi"-      nihappy, charge  not  his  misery 


1.  Chatterton. 

2.  Burns. 

3.  Dante, 

4.  Need  we  pity  these  twin  sinjjcrs,  of  jjlooni  and  gflory?  Need  wc  compas- 
sionate Milton,  when  aire,  povertj^,  loneliness  and  neglect  were  his?— wlien 
the  darker  days  found  Inni  solitary, 

'  In  darkness,  and  with  dangers  coniposs'd  round?' 
lie  needs  not  our  pity.  Almost  any  so-called  happy  man  is  more  pitiable. 
No  man  who  ever  lacked  or  lost  had  more  intrinsic  and  splendid  compensa- 
tion. This  grandest  figure  on  the  wide  plain  of  the  centuries,  had  in  it  a  soul 
that  swept  all  chords  of  etherial  music  with  profoundest  harmony:  therein 
dwelt  a  spirit — the  temple  of  the  virtues,  austere  without,  perchance,  but 
tenanted  witliin  by  all  gracefullest  forms,  and  sufl'usedwith  color  and  un- 
speakable radiancy — 

"  A  part  and  parcel  of  the  purest  sky." 

Such  a  m.an  is  better  fitted  to  move  us  to  awe,  than  pity;   and   such  a  life 
might  glorify  the  lowliest  lot.     If  highest  moral  and  mental  worth,  and  duty 
bravely  done;    if  to  have  "  kept  pure  the  holy  forms  of  young  Imagination,'' 
makes  happiness,  then  he,  who  had  "  fallen  on  evil  davs,  and  evil  tongues," 
had,  after  all,  ideal  blessedness.     Human  sympathy — tlie  warm  hand-clasp — 
friendship — love,  might  be  dear  to  him  ;  but  no  man  was  ever  better  qualihed 
to  live  without  the  habitual  presence  of  his  friends.     His  life  was  to  its  latest 
devoted  to  high  thinking  and  lofty  singing;    and  in  these  things  few  could 
bring  him  fellowship.     His  life  was  lifted  up,  and  set  apart;    "  His  mind 
Became  a  mansion  of  all  lovely  forms; 
His  memory    *    *    *     a  dwelfing-place 
For  all  sweet  sounds  and  harmonies-" — Wordsworth. 


n 


12 


\ 


THE  MASQUE  OF  MINSTRELS. 


upon  the  Muse ;    since  her  prerogative  is  to  complete  his 
felicity. 

HERALD. 

Of  what  will  ye  sing,  when  my  Lady  layeth  tribute  on  your 
harps? 

THIRD  MINSTREL. 

1  will  weave  a  musical  web  of  dreams;  I  will  wile  the 
hearts  of  my  Lord  and  Lady  with  finest  fancies,  and  harmo- 
nious visionings,  that  may  carry,  with  completeness,  the 
poet's  deepest  meanings. 

FIRST   MINSTREL. 

I  will  sing  out  of  the  affections,  a  ballad  of  the  love  of 
womanhood  and  childhood,  of  country  and  home.  I  will 
celebrate  the  deeds  of  good  and  brave  men ;  my  songs  maj' 
cheer  them  while  they  live,  and  glorify  and  lament  them 
when  they  die. 

SECOND    MINSTREL. 

My  heart  shall  win  its  music  from  the  unseen,  and  breathe 
of  infinitude;  it  shall  incite  to  aspiration  and  endeavor. 
My  singing  shall  be  of  the  soul — the  deeds  and  hopes  of 
eternity.  My  thoughts  shall  move  with  the  spheres  and 
circles  of  the  heavens ;  shall  mount  upward,  past  seraph  and 
archangel,  to  the  Divine  and  Perfect  Man. 

HERALD. 

And  what  shall  be  the  chief  guerdon  of  your  singing? 
Ask  ye  gold  ? 

ALL. 

Nay,  not  gold. 

HERALD. 

What  will  ye,  then. 

FIRST  MINSTREL. 

That  we  mav  be  known  for  what  we  are. 


THE  MASQUE  OF  MIN STEELS. 


18 


THIKD   MINSTREL. 

That  we  maj'  be  admitted  for  love,  and  prized  for  what 

we  are. 

SECOND    MINSTREL. 

Ratlipr,  that  everywhere  our  brothers  may  be  better  for 
what  we  are. 

HERALD. 

Enter,  and  win  your  crowns ;  mingle  with  these  mighty, 
and  find  yonr  places. 

I  beh(;ld  liow  tlie  Herald  went  before  them,  opening  a 
heavy  brazen  door,  into  a  great  hall,  that  blazed  with  light, 
snch  as  purity  and  beauty  of  mind  alone  could  endure  to 
look  upon,  and  which  clearlj'  showed  all  things,  whether  of 
fair  or  foul.  I  saw  how  the  Minstrels  went  into  this  bright- 
ness, like  a  Hock  of  birds  into  sunset,  and  had  a  glimpse  of 
that  high  throne  and  kingly  presence,  with  the  throng  of 
laurelled  singers.  But  just  as  their  music  burst  upon  my 
ear,  the  door  closed,  and  I  saw  no  more. 

When  the  moon  was  low.  and  with  the  fading  of  the  morn- 
ing star.  I  saw  coming  forth  out  of  the  castle  the  train  of 
Minstrels,  crowned  and  elate,  from  the  royal  festival :  but 
one  wander<'d  apart,  disconsolately,  and  made  away  beneath 
the  many-shadowing  oaks  of  the  demesne ;  his  head  dropped 
low  upon  his  bosom,  and  his  harp  hanging  carelessly  in  his 
hand.  Soon  I  i)erceived  him  the  leader  of  that  wandering 
company  who  had  lately  entered ;  and,  drawing  nearer,  I 
beheld  him  tearful,  and  heard  his  sigh«^,  and  the  low  mur- 
mur of  his  voice  as  he  went  his  way:  ^'' There  be  first  who 
shall  be  last:  my  brethren  have  their  garlands ;  but  I  am 
uncrowned." 

Presently  I  saw  the  Herald  hastening  behind  to  overtake 
him.  and,  as  he  came  up.  he  looked  pityingly,  and  I  heard 
him  speak  in  a  gentle  manner, 
2 


14 


THE  MASQUE  OF  MIN STEELS. 


HKKALD. 

Why  art  thou  nnhai)i)y?  Is  not  son*;  to  thee  consohition 
and  reward? 

FIHST    MINSTIJKL. 

That  which  was  my  pride  in  solitude,  lias  become,  amid 
courts,  my  shame.'  There  I  liave  no  voice;  \ny  spirit  is 
silent,  my  skill  deserts  me. 

IIEHALD. 

What  of  these,  thy  companions,  who  went  in  with  thee, 
and  came  out  joyously? 

FIRST    3II\STKEL. 

They  could  stand  among  men,  and  blenched  not  from  the 
front  of  kings.  But  I  was  formed  in  solitude,  and  belong 
to  that,  alone.  Ignorant  of  oiu'selves.  and  of  the  world,  we 
sigh  for  our  undoing.  In  my  privacy  and  vernal  encliant- 
ment,  and  while  I  trod  the  sun)mer  fields.  I  deemed  I  could 
fetch  the  glories  that  fell  around  me  there,  into  the  world, 
and  to  the  places  where  great  men  sit  for  counsel  and  judg- 
ment. 

IIEKALD. 

And  how  fared  it  with  thee? 

FIR8T    MINSTREL. 

The  aureole-hope  that  hung  lik(^  a  crown  over  the  brow  of 
yesterday,  has  melted  awaj'.  Ah,  that  I  had  been  content 
to  nourish  my  dreams  where  tirst  they  rose  to  charm  me! 

HERALD. 

They  did  not  hear  you? 

FIRST    MINSTREL. 

But  had  they  heard  me  in  my  native  shades,  before  cages 

I.  My  shame  in  crowds,  my  solitary  pride. —  Oold smith. 


[l 


THE  MASQUE  OF  MINSTIiELS. 


16 


consolation 


II  with  thee, 


)efore  casres 


were  known  to  nie,  or  I  had  seen  the  j^litter  of  palacos.  they 
had  listened.  But  I  have  lost,  and  shall  learn  tiiateharni  no 
more. 

IIKHALI). 

Thou  speakest  in  tone  as  of  one  mourning  the  dead :  my 
lieart  is  full  of  pity. 

IIUST    MINSTHKL. 

Then  I  will  speak  to  thee,  sinec  thou  wilt  listen.  Mus;e 
hath  from  my  freshest  years  been  a  delightsome  phantom, 
and  till  now  I  have  followed  her.  She  lias  been  too  mueh 
my  joy;  she  brought  me  to  run  after  rainbows — to  pine  for 
a  minstrers  guerdon. 

HKUALU. 

Thou  yieldest  to  misfortune  too  easily. 

FIHST    MINSTHEL. 

1  was  soon  taught  to  yield :  1  was  a  bird  whose  wing  was 
early  broken ;  and  when  1  could  no  longer  sport  with  blithe 
companions — when  the  sun  stared  at  me,  lying  panting  on 
the  grass,  and  I  could  no  longer  rise  to  brush  the  green 
leaves  with  my  plumes,  I  counted  my  life  worthless.  But 
the}'  put  me  in  the  nest;  and  because  it  was  snug  and  warm, 
I  grew  content,  artd  gave  myself  to  singing.  Human  love 
was  my  minisier,  and  my  heart  had  cheer,  for  from  the  dis- 
tant groves  I  had  many  a  friendly  warble;  and  1  was 
ennilous  even  of  the  nightingales.  Whatever  note  came,  an 
echo  was  stirred  within  me;  whatever  nobly-pleasing  hope 
or  dream  arose.  1  set  it  to  my  song;  whatever  golden  leaf 
of  fancy  lluttered  from  the  skills  to  me  was  my  adoinment; 
and  every  sweet  thought  was  laid  inward  on  my  heart.  Amid 
pains  1  had  ecstacies,  and  my  si)irit  grew  and  flourished. 

HERALD. 

Alas!     Why  was  that  blest  abode  deserted? 


I    fj 


FIRST  MINSTRKL. 

The  Autumn  tempests  came ;  a  strong  wind  arose,  and  I 
was  blown  out  of  my  covert.  I  l(»oked  around  me,  and 
beheld  a  wide,  strange  world,  full  of  pi  ofane  noises,  and  un- 
musical souls,  hurrying  to  and  fro.  Tlius  was  1  swept  out 
of  my  home  nest,  and  lodged  far  from  th<^  place  where  my 
spirit  best  could  grow :  then  grew  my  singing  too  mournful, 
so  men  would  not  pause  to  hear  it.  I  must  soon  bid  the 
harp  farewell. 

HERALD. 

Nay,  take  thee  cheer.  Win  back  the  blessedness  into  thj' 
life,  that  belonged  to  thine  earlier  revels.  Song  tinds  her 
home  everywhere,  and  has  in  all  places  a  temple  ready  for 
her  occupation.  Conquer  thy  despair,  and  tliou  shalt  feel 
within  thy  bosom  the  stirring  of  new  liopes,  tliat  shall  not 
fail  thee,  and  yearnings  of  the  sort  tliat  cannot  die.  Gather 
the  scattered  relics  of  tliy  mind  from  tliese  past  years;  for 
the  task  will  save  thy  spirit  from  despondency,  and  separate 
thee  from  thy  sadness. 

I  saw  that  after  they  had  conversed  together,  they  parted ; 
and  as  the  Minstrel  moved  away  under  the  deep  shade, 
I  heard  him  singing:  "Ah,  sweet  river  of  Peace!  Whither 
flow  the  gladness  of  thy  waters?  I  follow  thee — to  what 
mountains  of  vision,  through  what  vales  of  quietude,  and  by 
what  entangling  luxuriance  of  shade!  Thither,  O  mine 
angel !  ever  lead  me,  from  the  sun  unshaded  and  the  many- 
voiced  discordance,  and  the  places  where  my  heart  and 
home  are  not!  Ah,  tranquil  peace-river!  lead  me,  for  I 
follow  thee  forever — forever ! " 


U 


1 


ALICE    LEK. 
I. 

O  love !    sweet  love !    that  makes  the  bright  eyes  blind ; 
O  love  !    sweet  love !    that  when  the  world  was  young 

Forged  the  soft  links  tiiat  will  may  not  unbind  : 
O  love !    sweet  love  I    that  in  a  world  of  love 

Makes  brightness  dark,  and  out  of  darkness  joy. 

— IIUNTER   DUVAR. 


|0W  sweet,  at  sunset's  golden  hour, 

To  tread  these  shades — this  glimmering  green, 
When  cheerly  from  yon  black'ning  tower. 

The  bells  make  glad  the  listening  scene ; — 
To  leave  the  merry  groups  that  go, 
In  rural  pastime,  to  and  fro. 
And  walk  along  the  church-yard  way 

Beneath  yon  yew  tree's  sombre  shade ; 
Or  by  yon  leaning  stone  delay, 

With  vines  and  mosses  overlaid, 
Where,  in  an  earlier  year,  two  graves  were  made. 

For  th(!re  I  met  an  aged  man 

Whose  step  was  slow,  whose  cheek  was  wan ; 

Whose  sad  and  faded  eyes  were  full 

Of  tears,  whose  looks  were  sorrowful : 

He  paused  beneath  the  budding  shade. 

And  where  the  church  its  shadow  laid 


18 


ALICE  LEE. 


At  siuisct  season,  yoator  e'en, 

Kestiiiji^  upon  Iiih  staif  was  seen, 

Beside  a  mound  just  overlaid 

VVitli  tints  of  Spring's  returning  green. 

Unseen,  1  nearer  drew  to  liear 

Ttic  grief  unmeant  for  human  car; 

No  step,  irreverent  or  rude, 

Jarred  on  tlie  holy  >a(ditude : 

As  bare  lie  mad<;  his  agcti  head, 

And  bent  him  o'er  tlie  turfy  b«Ml, 

These  were  tiie  longing  words  he  said: 

'•My  Love! — my  Aliee!     it  is  long. 

And  very  weary  since  you  diiMl, 
Since  from  your  lip  ebbed  back  the  song. 

And  from  your  (jIumjU  th«;  <;rimson  tide  : 
I  lightly  smiled  to  Ioj»V(;  your  side. 

To  lose  you  when  I  loved  you  most, — 
To  lose  who  would  have  been  my  bride. 

Had  not  my  love  been  early  crossed  : 
Yet  are  you  ever,  eoor  lost? 
No,  surely  thou  shalt  soon  be  given 
To  me  again  in  Love's  own  heaven ! 
I  shall  beliohl  tliee  now,  ere  long, 

With  raptured  heart,  antl  glowing  eye, 
VVliere  sorrow  yields  to  heavenly  song, 

And  where  true  lovers  never  die." 

Long  time  he  paused,  and  bent  him  there, 
Till  twilight  tilled  the  sliadowy  air; 
Then,  turning,  me  he  lirst  descried. 
As  almost  standing  at  his  side: 
His  mien  grew  stern :  ••  And  who,"  lie  said, 
'•' Invades  tlie  slumber  of  tlie  dead? 
Wlio  comes  his  presence  to  intrude 
On  sorrow's  sacred  solitude?" 


ALICE  LEE. 


19 


Uo  would  liMVo  iMovtMl  awjiy: — "Forgive," 

I  warmly  siil<l.  "  I  alno  llvo 

In  fcUowsliip  witli  love  and  ^ilof ; 

'I'liy  i'onlldcnco  shall  brin;;  r«'ll«'f : 

No  wnnton  footstep  bion^ht  me  ntMir 

Tln'  sci'H't  of  your  soul  to  hear. 

Until  your  di'cp  patliotic  plaint 

Detained  me  with  a  jstvon;^  restraint. 

Then  to  the  sympathetle  ^low 

Which  I  for  you  have  learned  to  know. 

Yield,  and  the  friendly  hand  bt'stow." 

The  hand  of  confidenee  he  pive. 

And  led  me  slowly  from  the  grave. 

To  where,  beneath  his  cottage  shade, 

A  rustic  seat  of  roots  was  made; 

Then,  resting,  he  began  to  tell 

The  woes  once  writ  in  sorrow's  chronicle. 

I  was  a  student,  no'vly  come 

To  this  retired  neighborhood. 
To  tind  the  (^harm  of  cottage-home, 

And  breezy  hill,  and  stream,  and  wood; 

So.  'neath  the  roof  of  Farmer  Lee, 

Came  rest,  and  sweet  security. 

And  the  delights  of  solitude. 

I  ranged  the  sylvan  worhl  without ; 

Angled  the  stream  for  spotted  trout. 

Or  found  the  nests,  the  trees  among. 

Where  otinfrtorinnrju.^^i^j.iaa  fnni-.^.i  tlicir  youug; 

But  soon  I  found  my  best  content 

Where  gentle  Alice  came  and  went; 

My  recluse  mind,  my  silent  mood 

Melted  like  mists  of  morn,  pursued 

By  arrows  of  the  archer  Light. 

When  Hrst  she  came  upon  my  sight. 


20 


ALICE  LEE. 


Her  hand  o'erdrooped  with  j^arden  flowers : 

Her  hand ! — yc  beauteous,  plastic  powers! — 

It  might  adorn  the  guelder  rose. 

The  fairest  eartlily  flower  that  grows ; 

Nor  shame  the  crocus,  dipt  in  yellow  flame ; 

Or,  (wet  at  morn,  on  its  green  stem) 

The  snowdrop's  pure,  delicious  gem ; 

Or  other  beauties  she  might  bring 

That  figure  o'er  the  robe  of  Spring: 

O  white  and  delicate  hand !   ye  shine 

In  memory  still :  and  O  ye  flowers 
That  wreathed  her  fingers,  fairy-fine, 

Yo  charmed  me  first  in  those  resplendent  liours ! 

O  eloquent  eyes !  your  silent  mirth 
Left  not  the  like  for  me  on  earth ; 
O  form,  so  lithe  to  glide  away, 
Like  sun-lit  cloud  of  summer  day! 

0  voice  of  music ! — laughter-free ! 
My  heart  applauded  inwardly. 

When  down  the  stairs  each  note  I  heard, 

Blithe  as  the  carol  of  a  bird. 

Or  running  water  in  a  wood : 

My  heart  had  lain  asleep  until 

She  woke,  it  with  a  musical  thrill; 

For,  surely,  in  her  happiest  hours. 

Hers  were  a  Saint  Cecilia's  powers! 

For,  not  when  vernal  woods  rejoice, 

And  harmony  informs  the  trees 

With  sound's  ascensions,  and  degrees 

Of  liquid,  swelling  symphonies, 

Such  rain  of  joy,  such  wild  enchantment  showers  :- 

Before  I  heard  it,  I  declare, 

1  sometimes  hummed  a  half  forgotten  air. 


ALICE  LEE, 


21 


"Beware I  beware!"  the  clamoring  rooks 

Called  from  the  breezy  elms  outside : 

That  voice  of  music  never  died 

From  springing  of  the  dewy  dawn 

Till  evening  was  a  glorj'  gone ; 

Or,  if  it  ceased  my  ear  to  fill, 

It  floated  on  in  memory  still ; 

It  rippled  o'er  my  tedious  books, 

It  tangled  with  my  web  of  thought ; 

I  hesitated,  and  forgot, 

And  hourly  read — I  knew  not  what, 

From  morn  till  eventide. 

For  Love  had  come,  with  viewless  wings, 

To  hover  on  th'  enaraor'd  air. 
To  seek  my  heart's  most  secret  springs. 

And  dwell  with  soft  enchantment  there. 

Till  all  the  world  looked  doubly  fair : 
The  lisping  of  the  cluster'd  leaves 

Had  deeper,  sweeter  power  to  move ; 
The  swallows,  twittering  'neath  the  eaves. 

Blithely  express'd  my  thougl^ts  of  love ; 
I  saw  in  bright  poetic  hues 

The  plainest  forms  of  earth  arrayed — 
Saw  diamonds  in  the  morning  dews. 

And  pictures  in  each  flowery  glade ; 
The  pigeons,  looking  from  their  cotes. 
Now  coo'd  from  mellower,  softer  throats ; 
And  the  deep  blue  of  sun-bright  skies. 
Beamed  only  with  the  lustre  of  her  eyes, 

She  came,  and  went— a  gleam  of  light-^ 
A  wing'd  delight — a  gracious  thing ! 

She  had  a  busy  bird-like  flight, 
A  motion  like  ft  sunlit  spriug, 
3 


22 


ALICE  LEE. 


u 


Whose  glancing  waters  drink  tlie  light. 
Ah,  she  was  one  man  well  might  woo! 

A  well  of  chcerfnlnoss — von  luight 
Have  fonnd  her  grave  and  serious,  too : 
And  when  we  had  for  company 

The  high  assembly  of  the  stars, 

Or  moonlight  through  the  lattice  bars 
Whitening  the  floor,  her  purity 
Bose  stately  thiongh  the  pearly  stream. 
Beauteous  as  an  angel  in  a  dream. 

When,  in  the  prosp'rous  summer  time, 

After  the  setting  of  the  sun, 
The  bells  rang  out  their  sweetest  chime, 

To  tell  his  golden  hours  were  done : 
While  o'er  the  quiet  valley  lay 
The  lights  and  shades  of  i)arting  day. 
And  from  the  garden,  underneath 

My  window,  came  t\w.  scent(;d  air, 
AVith  rose  and  honeysuckle's  breath  ; — 
Then  Alice,  free  from  household  care, 
Came  to  my  side  with  sweet  content. 
And  gave  my  heart  its  element : 
Some  little  nested  bird  might  chirp. 

Some  careless  leaves  might  rustling  stir, 
Or  if  slie  brush'd  her  idle  harp, 

'Twas  all  as  if  it  silent  were ; 
I  only  saw  her  much-loved  form, 
I  only  heard  her  bosom  warm — 

The  beating  heart,  so  rich  in  her: 
Feeling  swelled  like  a  river  strong, 
That  found  its  earliest  vent  in  song; 
Through  faltering  lips  impassioned  words  made  way, 

Her  listening,  longing  ear  to  reacli ; 
I  bound  her  to  my  life  for  aye, 


ALICE  LEE. 


28 


With  cords  of  silver  speecli : 
Rising,  she  laid  her  hand  in  mine. 

Nor  soon  dSA  it  remove  : — 
O  heavenly  rapture,  half  divine, 

Of  snch  requited  love  I 

Who  could  behold  her,  and  not  love  her? 

And  many  hailed  Ikm-  li<^ht  afar, 
Deeming  that  in  the  heavens  above  her 

There  shone  no  purer,  lovelier  star. 
She  was  no  reigning  vilhige  belle. 

But  modest  as  a  violet 
Or  wind-llowtM-;  like  imn  in  cell 
She  wont  in  solitude  to  dwell ; 

She  courted  not  man's  ga/e,  and  yet 
A  loval  heart  might  love  her  well. 
I've  loved  her  long  and  well,  I  ween. 
Whom  I  have  n(;itiier  heard  nor  seen 
Since  one  sad  parting  iiour  befell : 
The  wearying  years  successive  flow; 

And  yet  \  know. 
Her  grave  shall  chan^^e  from   white  to  green. 
The  sky  shall  change  from  bright  to  gray, 

For  many  a  day. 
Before  that  love  can  weai"  away. 

Not  eyes  mon;  deep,  nor  face  more  fair, 
(,'an  lieavcn-tangbt  poet  paint  or  sing; 

And  a  rare  ligiit  wa>;  playiuii"  tlicre. 
As  from  an  angcTs  outspread  wing; 

It  made  me  deem  her  sweeter  far 

Than  half  th<!  lov<?s  of  poets  are. 

Yon  cannot  wonder,  if  yon  heed. 

That  fair  in  mind  are  fair  in  deed; 

While  features,  tiiat  at  tirst  seem  dull. 


ALICE  LEE. 


In  God's  high  light  grow  beautiful. 
There  Is  a  grace  all  undefined — 

Not  starry  eyes,  nor  queenly  brows — 
The  presence  of  a  tranquil  mind, 

A  heart  to  which  cold  beauty  bows ; 
For  Art's  perfections  lose  control, 
Uncrown 'd  by  a  superior  soul. 

A  light  of  worlds  that  are  not  ours 

Dwelt,  fathomless,  within  her  eyes. 
With  hues  of  all  unfading  flowers, 
Giving  of  bliss  a  sweet  surmise — 
A  holy  hint  of  Paradise. 
Her  singing  took  a  mournful  strain. 
As  half  of  joy,  and  half  of  pain ; 
And  oft  I  noted  shades  of  sadness 
Fleeting  across  her  features'  gladness, 
Whilo  she  would  answer  some  caress 
With  sighing — I  should  love  her  less : 
As  if  she  did  forbode  the  blow 
That  broke  my  life,  and  laid  her  low ; 
As  if,  before  she  would  depart, 

She  wished  to  pity  my  distress. 
And  soothe  a  hungry,  broken  heart. 

On,  on  each  balmy  moment  went, 
Too  heavenly-sweet !  too  swiftly  spent ! 
And  when  her  brown  locks  might  eclipse 

Her  speaking  face.  I  brushed  them  back, 
That  she  no  charm  should  seem  to  lack, 
Nor  rose-tint  upon  cheeks  or  lips. 
You  smile  at  an  old  man  who  thus 
About  a  maid  grows  garrulous ; 
Yet  pardon  grant  the  man  of  tears. 
Whose  sorrows  have  forerun  his  years ; 


ALICE  LEE. 


86 


The  dream  that  gilds  my  earthly  night 

Is  but  this  dream  of  past  delight, 

That  never  can  be  real  again. 
Then  bid  me  not  from  fondest  speech  refrain : 
In  all  my  weary  round  of  loss  and  life 
I  never  yet  have  called  my  Alice  wife ; 
But,  while  she  lived,  our  mutual  loves  were  pure 
As  the  clear  stream  that  wandered  by  her  door, 
Or  each  bright  crystal  bead  of  showers,  that  drips 
Full  in  the  sun,  from  yon  eaves'  leaden  lips : 
Bear  with  my  doting : — 'though  now  silver-gray. 
These  locks  were  dark  ere  that  disastrous  day. 
My  love  remains  the  same,  or  deeper  grown, 
Than  when  I  felt  that  Alice  was  my  own. 
And,  with  a  rapture  that  no  tongue  can  speak. 
Pressed  warm  affection's  seal  on  brow  and  cheek. 

Return!  ah,  ye  swift-turning,  happy  days  I 
Come  back  in  memory,  and  remain. 

Time,  when  it  seemed  as  if  the  golden  haze 
Of  midsummer  crept  o'er  my  brain. 
To  thi!ik  I  loved— O  fond  amaze ! 

And  was  belov'd  again ! 
Time,  when  no  sign  or  shade  of  care 
Came  near  to  touch  me  anywhere ; 

When  Eden  had  a  later,  balmier  birth. 

And  Love's  best  Paradise  seemed  on  the  earth ; 
And  when,  'nJd  dreams  tiiat  made  the  night 
A  shadowy  garden  of  delight, 

Stars  and  flowers  did  balm  distil. 
As  we  loitered  'neath  their  light, 
'^lid  their  upturned  faces  bright. 
On  the  richly-wooded  hill. 

Then  often,  stealing  out  of  doors, 
I  wandered  lonely  down  the  vale, 


I,  I 


26 


ALICE  LEE. 


Beneath  eacli  shadow-spreading  tree, 
Slowly,  as  o'er  a  summer  sea 

Moves  out  a  bark  with  silvery  sail, 
From  its  safe-sheltering  shore : 
When,  musingly,  I  bore  with  me. 
Vacantly  turning  its  pages  o'er, 

Some  minstrel's  old  romantic  tale, 

Of  squire,  and  knight  and  paladin ; 

Or  book  where  bard  had  garnered  in 
His  fancy's  flowery  store. 
Then  in  some  leaf-embowered  retreat, 
Beside  the  brook  I  found  my  seat. 
Where  o'er  the  shelvy  ledge  it  fell. 

Scattering  its  spray  in  frolic  wild. 

As  leaps  and  shouts  a  sportive  child. 
With  laughter  long  and  musical; 
While  on  my  mossy  couch  was  made 
A  chequer-work  of  light  and  shade. 

Or  when,  ere  sunset's  milder  hour 
Hushes  the  bird,  and  folds  the  flower; 
While  yet  the  sun's  declining  ray 
Tempers  the  too  refulgent  day, 
I  entered  through  its  open  door, 
And  trod  the  great  barn's  threshing-floor : 
The  coolness  of  that  ample  place 
Seemed  gift  of  some  superior  grace 

For  fane  or  temple  fltter: 
There  oft  I  dreamed  an  hour  away, 
Trone  on  the  clover-scented  ha}'. 
Watching  the  cobwebs  hang  aloof, 
And  waver  on  the  darkened  roof; 
While  swift-wing'd  swallows  come  and  go, 
LiLc  arrows  shot  from  hunter's  bow, 
Or  flutter,  circling  to  and  fro, 


ALICE  LEE. 


87 


With  many  a  chirp  and  twitter: 
And  so  the  visions  doli<|^hted  nie. 
Of  joys  that  never  were  to  be. 
Until  the  evening  dews  were  falling, 
And  I  heard  the  sweetest  of  voices  calling. 


A 


■\ 


II. 

Her  brow  was  like  the  snow-drift, 
Her  throat  was  like  the  swan, 

And  her  face  it  was  the  fairest 
That  e'er  the  sun  shone  on. 

Like  dew  on  the  cowan  lying 
Was  the  fa'  of  her  fairy  feet. 

And  like  winds  of  summer  sighing 
Her  voice  was  low  and  sweet. 

•'  Love,  the  beautiful  and  brief!" 


-Annie  Laurie. 


—Schiller. 


LOVE,  the  beautiful  and  brief!' 
Her  place  is  not  upon  the  earth ; 
Awhile  she  goeth  meekly  forth, 
To  cheer  the  hearts  and  homes  of  grief : 
She  is  too  pure  and  beautiful 

To  walk  with  misery,  hand  in  hand, 
And  her  sweet  homesick  soul  is  full 

Of  sighing  for  her  native  land : 
And  so  she  lingers  sadly  on, 
Then  spreads  her  white  wing,  and  is  gone- 
'0  Love  the  beautiful  and  brief!' 

With  such  a  sweetly-plaintive  tone 
1  heard  my  Alice  lowly  singing, 

While  from  the  meadow,  newly  mown, 
She  saw  them  homeward  bringing, 


80 


ALICE  LEE. 


At  the  golden  close  of  day, 

The  latest  load  of  fragrant  hay. 
''And  why."  the  hrowii-fat'od  fanner  said, 
Strokhig  his  innocent  daughter's  head, 
"Wliy  that  tone  and  word  of  grief? 
Nor  life,  nor  lov(!  with  thee  he  hrief !" 
She  sniiled.  and  sighed,  and  turned  away, 
Wliile  evening  changed  from  gold  to  gray. 

To  gather  dust  I  cast  aside 
My  books;  nor  was  I  satisfied 
To  glean  from  musty  pages  long. 
When  life  was  story,  dream,  and  song. 
On  yonder  hill,  so  smooth  and  dry, 
I  found  a  living  poesy, 

Through  the  long  sunnner  afteinoon. 
There  Alice  often  came  with  me; 

And  oft  th'  companionable  moon 
Rose  on  our  walks,  ere  we  had  found 
Completeness  of  oui  happj'  round, 
Back  at  the  farmstead.     Soon  would  she 
Bring  in  the  fragrant,  steaming  tea ; 
While  curds  and  golden  honey,  there. 
With  wholesome  cates — a  farmer's  fare — 
She  featly  placed,  and  cheerily. 

And,  once  upon  a  time,  when  we 
Had  walked  a-tield,  I  chanced  to  say 

How  with  vague  bits  of  poesy 
I  whiled  an  idle  hour  away : 

For  love  will  make  us  rhyme,  though  ne'er 

So  sterile,  and  of  fancy  bare. 

The  smitten  swain  may  chance  to  be. 

''  Sing  me  a  song," — my  darling  said ; 
"  One  you  have  framed."     Could  I  denj'? 


ALICE  LEE. 


tl 


A  simple  song  of  waiting  maid 
At  tryst,  in  bosom  of  greon  sliade, 
And  lover's  cold  inconstancy: 

•r 

At  twilifjlit's  soft  (Irciim-timc, 

At  fall  (jf  the  clew, 
When  ineudow  and  woodland 

Grow  dim  on  uiy  view, 
1  linjjer,  I  listen, 

Alone  and  apart, 
For  the  musical  footfall 

That  gladdens  my  heart. 

O  swittheatinjif  pulses! 

Your  flutter  and  flow, 
Like  quiverinff  leaflets 

Where  li^flit  breezes  blow, 
Say, — "  Now  he  is  coming. 

Across  the  dim  dell. 
The  noble  anil  bright  one 

Who  loves  me  so  well !" 

Alone,  and  so  lonely! — 

No  voice  answers  mine, 
Save  the  rush  of  the  liver. 

The  sigh  of  the  i)ine: — 
Hark!  come-,  he,  belated? 

Nay,  maiden,  'tis  o'er; 
Thy  lover  shall  meet  thee — 

Shall  greet  thee  no  more. 

Tlie  soul  of  mlrtii  danced  in  her  eye, 
And  she  exclaimed  right  merrily  : 
''  Ho !  2/OM,  too,  learn  to  sing  and  sigh  ! 
Come !  court  tiie  muse  to  strike  again 
Your  harp,  and  try  a  cheerier  strain." 
'•Indeed,"  I  said,  •'!  shall  have  skill. 
If  yon  but  speak,  to  work  your  will:" 
Whereat,  in  tone  of  lighter  cheer, 
I  breathed  this  ditty  in  her  ear: 

O  yc  gems,  that  lie 

Gleaming  in  caves  of  light! — 

Jewels  of  the  sky. 

Worn  on  the  brow  of  night! 

Come  ye,  and  shine 
Mid  the  tressy  gold  of  this  lady  of  mine ! 

O  ye  living  stars  ! — 

Ye  are  constancy  and  truth ! 


ALICE  LEE, 


O  pearly  gem  she  wears 

Of  a  sweet,  unspotted  youth, 
Come  ye,  and  shine 
On  the  snowy  brow  of  this  lady  of  mine! 

Then,  ere  the  Imrvest  season  came, 
Ere  the  reaped  flelds  were  dry  and  brown, 

Full  many  a  sprightly  village  dame 
Knew  that  the  stranger  youth  from  town. 

After  the  reaping  time  should  be 

Wed  to  the  lass  of  Allan  Lee : 

For  words  are  wings,  and  fain  would  fly; 

Love's  secret  cannot  silent  lie, 

If  breathed  beneath  the  greenwood  tree; 

The  list'ning  bird,  o'erhead,  betrays 

In  warbles  what  each  lover  says ; 

The  evening  wind,  in  passing,  steals 

More  than  love  dreameth  he  reveals, 

And  tells  the  sweet  heart-story  when 

It  greets  the  listening  ear  again. 

The  gossips  kindly  dealt  with  us ; 

And  dame  to  dame  said  pleasantly 

That  it  was  just  as  it  should  be : 
Thus,  smiling  on  young  lovers' joy, 

They  dealt  in  endless  charity, 

Forecasting  man)'  a  peaceful  prosperous  year. 

And  the  old  farmer — grave — sincere, 

When  I  had  spoken,  answered  me 

With  kindly  tones,  and  tremulous, 
Yielding  his  child  to  the  rash  boy. 
Who  asked  her,  as  she  were  a  toy. 

To  bear  her  from  his  arms  away- 
Blessing  us  both,  with  smiles,  yet  tearfully. 

It  was  his  hope  we  would  not  stray — 
That  she  might  still  abide  with  him ; 


ALICE  LEE. 


His  whitening  locks,  bis  eye  grown  dim, 

His  Bti'cngtli,  slow  fiUling  every  day. 

Told  him  lie  had  not  long  to  stay. 

80  spalce  he :  we  would  not  depart ; 
The  new-found  friend  should  spare  a  parent's  heart ; 
And  since,  tlirough  all  these  years,  he  laclccd  a  son, 
Heaven,  not  too  late,  had  kindly  sent  him  one, 
Not  all  unworthy  of  his  promised  bride : 

And  slie,  he  knew,  was  good  and  true — 

A  virgin  rtower  of  purity, 

UntouchVl  and  unassaird  by  ill. 

Thus,  as  ships  ride  in  calms  at  sea. 

Or  move,  when  their  wide  sails  mild  breezes  1111, 

Our  bark  of  love  did  onward  glide 

Smootldy  at  the  highest  tide. 

At  last  'twas  tixed.    Said  Alice :  "•  Tliough 

You  to  your  native  town  must  go. 

And  greet  your  friends,  'tis  but  to  loose  the  ties 

That  hold  your  life's  chief  interest  there ; 

Yet,  sure,  your  longing  heart  must  burn. 

And  mine,  bereft,  as  fondly  yearn 

Toward  promised  hour  of  your  return." 

Not  long,  I  said,  the  city's  smoke  and  noise 

Could  please  me,  while  my  careful  mind 

Was  still  with  her  1  left  behind : 

Soon  from  its  walks  should  I  repair 

To  sweeter  scenes,  and  purer  air. 

And  long  ere  storms  of  winter  fell, 

Return  again  with  her  to  dwell. 

But,  as  our  parting  hour  grew  near, 

My  Alice  sad  and  sadder  grew; 
And  oft  I  saw  the  rising  tear 

That  filled  her  eye  with  tender  dew : 


84 


ALICE  LEE. 


I  heard  no  ringing,  merry  laughter 

Leap  on  the  air ;  but  accents  strange  and  low- 
Tones  ever  more  subdued,  and  softer — 
A  muffled  stream's  melodious  flow : 
And  faintest  moan  that  turtle  dove 
Breathes  in  the  deep  of  shadowy  grove, 
Did  in  her  snowy  bosom  move ; 
Or  deep'ning  sigh,  wherewith  the  zephyr  grieves 
At  evening,  'mong  the  pine  tree's  thready  leaves. 

How  swiftly  fled  our  latest  day ! 
How  fleet  its  evening  rolled  away ! 
While  softly,  to  her  harpsichord, 
She  sang  me  many  a  tender  word ; 
Charming  away  th'  foreboding  pain, 
And  dread  of  parting,  with  the  strain. 

What  the  star  is  to  the  sky, 

And  the  j)earl  is  to  the  sea, 
What  the  hght  is  to  the  eye, 

And  the  leaf  is  to  the  tree ; 
What  the  joy  of  niountinu;^  winj^js 
To  the  bird  that  soars  ana  sinjj^s, — 

Thou  art  to  me. 

Like  to  halcyon,  heavenly  calm, 

After  strife  of  stormy  sea. 
Like  an  hour  of  ease  and  balm, 

After  moan  and  agony ; 
Or  the  summer's  golden  glow. 
After  bursts  of  wintry  snow, — 

Thou  art  to  me. 

With  many  a  heart-ache,  deeply  felt, 

I  left  the  vale  where  Alice  dwelt. 
Much,  secretly,  she  wept — her  cheek  grew  pale 

As  I  went  forth,  and  longingly 
She  watched  my  form  retreating  down  the  vale : 

For  when  I  reached  the  opposing  hill 

That  watches  o'er  her  cottage  still, 
I  for  a  moment  paused  to  see 


ALICE  LEE. 


85 


Her  standing  at  her  father's  door, 
'Neath  shade  of  elm  and  sycamore, 

Still  gazing  after  me ; 
While  in  her  hand  a  kerchief  white 
Flutter'd  and  waved  before  my  sight : 
Then  on  I  pressed — the  ridge  was  crossed. 
And  from  my  sight  my  love  was  lost. 

The  dusky-smiling  eve  came  down 
Long  ere  I  reached  my  native  town, 
And  trod  the  many-lighted  street. 
I  sought  the  home  where  once  had  lived  my  sire; 
And.  as  my  travel-weary  feet  drew  near, 
I  felt,  within,  that  tremulous  desire — 
That  mingled  spiiit  of  eagerness  and  fear 
Which  moves  us  when  we  go  to  meet 
Friends  parted  from  us  niatiy  days ; 
That  mystic  dread  and  yearning,  such 
As  draws  us  from  the  knocker's  touch — 
First  hastens  us.  and  then  delays. 

Few  were  the  friends  I  hoped  to  see. 

That  now  held  welcoming  hand  to  me: 

Two  brothers"  lives  had  long  been  told ; 

My  father  slept  beneath  the  sea. 

My  mother  'neath  the  chnrchy.ird  mold; 

Yet  there  were  two.  this  side  the  grave, 

Who  greeting  word  of  gladness  gave — 

A  sister,  gentle  as  a  mother. 

And  one  who  was  indeed  a  brother. 

That  night  I  rested  in  the  home 
Wh(Me  1  had  lived  in  boyhood's  day; 

And,  softer  than  the  snowtlakes  come, 
Sweet  slumber  on  ray  senses  lay ; 

While  Alice,  and  the  woods  and  streams 


r 


ALICE  LEE. 


W      I 


If     y\ 


That.  I  had  left  so  far  away, 
Came  gliding  ever  through  my  dreams. 

Long  were  the  hours  of  my  abiding, 

Even  with  friends  so  true  and  kind : 

I  heard  my  sister's  mirthful  chiding 
Over  my  absent  heart  and  wandering  mind : 

Yet  morn  brought  with  it  occupation. 

And  evening  cheerful  conversation ; 
So,  days  that  tardy  seemed,  at  last  passed  by. 

And  the  wished-for  time  drew  nigh. 

I  heard  what  deeds  were  done,  what  words  were  said. 

When  Alice  wrote — as  oft  her  letters  came — 

The  friendlj^  gossip  that  the  neighbors  spread, 

As  linking  mine  with  her  beloved  name. 

"  Know  you."  one  mother  to  her  sister  spake, 

''  That  student-stranger  is  to  wed 

The  daughter  of  old  farmer  Lee, 

When  he  again  comes  back?'* 

"  Yea,  when  he  comes,"  croaked  back  the  dame. 
In  tone  of  evil  prophesy : 

''  Come  he  or  go  he — 'tis  the  same — 
You  speak  of  what  will  never  be !" 

Whereat  my  darling  had  a  mirthful  saying. 

Of  some  better  at  gossiping  than  haying. 


Dear  trifles  Alice  wrote  to  me : 

"  I  have  a  little  vase  of  flowers, 
Love,  in  your  chamber ;  since  you  went  away. 
These  busy  hands  have  trimmed  it  every  day, 
And  steadily  its  flowers  and  leaves  renewed 
From  wealth  of  garden,  lield,  and  wood. 

"  Forgive,"  she  wrote,  ''your  silly  Alice  Lee! 

But,  though  1  now  have  much  to  do, 

The  moments,  sill  for  want  of  you. 


ALICE  LEE, 


87 


Seem  to  stretch  themselves  to  hours. 
To-day  I  gaily  dressed  our  room 
With  many  a  flower  of  color  and  perfume, 
With  many  a  piny  spray  and  woodland  bloom." 

0  precious  scriptures  of  the  heart ! 
Still  do  I  keep  your  yellowing  leaves ; 

Ye  long  have  of  my  memory  formed  a  part — 
Writ  while  the  busy  reapers  bound  the  sheaves  I 
Of  many  things  she  record  gave — 
How  she  should  all  things  ready  have — 
Yea.  had  them  now^  as  if  to-day 

1  came  upon  my  homeward  way; — 
Of  how  her  wedding  dress  was  made, 
Of  how  her  prudent  plans  were  laid, 
But  most  of  how  she  held  me  dear, — 

With  every  simple  thing  a  lover  waits  to  hear. 


A 


-\ 


III. 

Oh,  hame,  hame,  haine,  to  my  ain  countrie! 

— Allan  Cunningham. 

I  shall  be  there  to-night : 
I  shall  be  there — no  longer  ive — 
No  more  with  thee. 

— Mrs.  Browning. 

Return  to  thy  dwelling!  all  lonely  return! 

— TlioMAS  Campbell. 


SANGUIXP]  Voiith!  to  whose  clear  sight 
The  future  lies  in  splendor  (light. 
How  can  we  bhuue  thy  phantasy? 

Do  men  at  morning  dread  tlie  night, 
Cr  fear  tlie  hour  wli«*n  noontide  iiigii 
Sliall  darken  from  the  glowing  sky? 
Nay! — though  fair  Hope  hath  oft  betray'd 
With  mingled  hues,  of  light  and  shade. 
The  heart,  with  every  fresh  delight, 
Still  clings  to  its  illusion  bright; 
Nor  deems  how  waking  may  dispel 
The  sweetest  fancy — dream  most  beautiful. 

So  one  clear  morn  the  allotted  time 

Of  absence  quite  had  worn  away. 
And  earliest  bells  began  to  chime 

Just  at  the  rising  of  the  day  : 


fTT'|r^ 


I 


40 


i       ! 


ALICE  LEE. 


My  Dative  town  I  left  behind, 
But  they  came  pealing  on  the  wind, 
With  joyous  tones,  while  to  my  mind 
They  something  mournful  seemed  to  say. 
A  shade  had  stolen  upon  my  heart, 

Of  fa  •  c  unknown,  impending  ill. 
Dun  as  ihe  cloud  whose  stormy  skirt 

Trails  o'er  the  brow  of  distant  hill. 

The  latest  week  of  absence  spent, 
Yet  n</t  tir  a 'onstom'd  letter  sent, 
Love-v,  in^  '^ti  f roru  the  farmer's  home, 
Through,  t.h  t'  n;  round  of  wear}'  days: 
I  wander'd  in  a  s'U^'  r'd  maze. 
And  ?vatles    uitht  bn   >-'il  visionary  woe;— 
Though  well  i  i£ne;v  iii;     '.Tvest  hands 
Were  reaping  on  her  father  s  lands, 
And  that  my  Alice  must  be  press'd 
By  duties  not  to  be  dismissed, — 
For<  ever  since  her  mother  died. 
She  used  to  govern  and  preside. 
Keeping  her  father's  house  with  care. 


Vl'  I 


*'  So,  courage !    I  shall  soon  be  there !" 
I  cried,  and  hummed  a  blithesome  air : 
''  Fly,  boding  thoughts !  forever  fly ! 
Like  ghosts,  when  crimson  morn  is  nigh. 

In  their  dim  sepulchre  to  hide : 
My  time  of  absence  now  is  spent, 
My  steps  are  home  to  Alice  bent. 

And  she  shall  be  my  happy  bride." 

So  on  I  went ;  and  morning  soon 
Melted  to  golden  afternoon — 
One  of  September's  matchless  store — 
When,  floating  o'er  a  wide,  wild  moor. 


I 

:  I 


ALICE  LEE. 


41 


I  heard  a  song ;  and  lo !  a  maid 
Walked  with  a  burden  on  her  head : 
With  bird-like  voice,  and  plaintive  mood, 
She  charmed  the  widening  solitude. 

In  the  time  of  the  sun  and  the  roses 
I  loved  thee  truly,  Annie  I 
Ah,  woe  for  to  be  awa',  in  the  lands  ayont  the  sea  I 

But  when  the  morning's  e'e  all  wet  wi'  tears  uncloses 
I  to  my  weeping  wake— O  far  awa'  from  thee  1 

In  the  time  when  the  roses  wither 
I  mourn  for  thee,  my  Annie ! 
Ah,  woe  for  to  be  awa',  awa'  so  far  frae  thee! 

Both  when  the  evening  fa's  o'er  thy  grave  in  the  land  of  heather, 
And  when  morning  rises  gray  out  of  the  trembling  sea. 

Through  wastes  of  country,  bleak  and  bare, 
And  sheltered  hamlet  did  I  fare, 

In  hastening  on  my  homeward  way. 
And  many  a  hill  and  heath  I  crossed ; 

Till  the  declining  beams  of  day 
In  evening's  shades  were  nearly  lost : 
The  day  was  stealing  down  the  west. 

Leaving  behind  a  trail  of  fire ; 
Clouds,  dipt  in  hues  the  loveliest. 

Were  fading  out,  or  floating  higher : 
I  reached  the  hill-top  o'er  the  vale. 
And,  in  the  distance,  glimmering  pale, 

Tall-rising,  saw  the  village  spire. 

Away  before  me,  o'er  the  vale. 

The  harvest  fields  were  lying  bare, 
With — lonely  as  a  single  sail 

On  a  wide  sea — left,  here  and  there, 
A  wheaten  stook;  some  fields  of  green, 
But  more  of  russet  hue  were  seen. 
These  were  the  scenes  I  held  so  dear, 
Only  a  sombre  atmosphere 
Seemed  to  be  brooding  over  all ; 


r^ 


Ilii! 


48 


ALICE  LEE. 


For  when  I  left  the  spot  so  fair, 
A  rapture  of  young  life  dwelt  there ; 
Now,  loosening  leaves  began  to  fall, 
And  woods  bespoke  the  waning  year, 
Where  late  the  wind's  obstreperous  breeze 
Smote  red  and  golden  clusters  from  the  trees. 


;!iiii 


The  hill,  upon  whose  wooded  side 

We  walked  in  summer,  I  had  gained; 
Twilight  involved  the  prospect  wide, 

And  every  trace  of  glory,  grained 
In  streaks  along  the  sunset  sky. 

Had  into  ashen  pallor  waned  : 
And,  while  the  shadows  deeper  grew. 
Dimming  all  things  on  the  view. 

While  evening  brooded  o'er  the  vale, 
The  evening  star  unclosed  its  eye; 
The  moon  arose,  defeatured,  pale. 
And  o'er  her  face  a  white  cloud  drew; 
For,  though  it  was  the  time  when  she 
Should  full,  and  fair,  and  golden  be, 
Siie  seemed  to  me  more  deadl}^  wliite, 
And  filled  with  wan,  uncertain  light. 
Low  sang  the  brook,  down  'neath  the  trees, 
In  undertone,  its  melodies, 
Hollow,  yet  sweet;  when,  by  the  beam 
Of  that  sick  moon,  some  shape  was  seen 
Of  dalesman,  hastening  to  his  cot. 
From  farmstead  near,  where  late  he  wrought; 
And  now,  across  the  village  green, 
The  twinkling  lights  were  lit. 

I  thought 
The  farmer's  home  looked  dead  and  cold : 
Beneath  its  bower  of  leafy  shade 


ALICE  LEE. 


I  saw  the  cottage — more  to  me 
Than  dome  of  gold  and  ivorj'; 
I  saw  each  nnidow — saw  the  door 
That  I  had  left,  to  see  no  more 
In  sunlight  warm,  all  open  wide, 
And  standing  there  mj'  plighted  bride : 
But  now  no  friendly  face  was  there. 
No  welcoming  voice  awoke  the  air; 
Dim  moonlight  fell  on  roof  and  tree. 

And  whitened  o'er  the  fields  beneath ; — 
But  where — O  where  was  Alice  Lee, 
Who  now  should  be  expecting  me ! 
What  made  the  house  so  dark,  and  still  as  death? 


And  yet,  I  chid  my  rising  fear. 

So  vague, — and  felt  a  certain  joy 
At  thinking  Alice  was  so  near 
That  if  I  called  her  she  might  hear; 

Then,  freakish  as  some  eager  boy, 
I  fled  along  the  gentle  slope. 
A-flutter  with  expectant  hope. 
And  to  the  farmer  home  drew  near. 
No  fire  upon  the  hearth  burned  bright. 

No  smoke  was  on  the  still  air  borne ; 
One  dying  taper's  pallid  light 
Shone  fitfully  upon  my  sight. 

And  made  her  window  look  forlorn. 
Right  cause  had  I  for  boding  fear. — 
For — hark! — a  bell  knolled  on  my  earl 
From  its  dark  tower  it  sounded  forth 
My  darling's  number'd  years  on  earth. 

What  breathless  haste,  I  knew  not.  bore 
My  footsteps  onward  to  the  door : 
As  one  who  starts,  at  dead  of  night. 


ALICE  LEE. 


i  I 


With  arms  upcast,  in  dire  affriglit. 

From  falling  dream — I  slirielced  aloud! 

I  reached  the  gate  with  steps  so  fleet 

The  earth  scarce  felt  my  flying  feet; 

I  shook  it,  wildly— found  it  fast— 

And  overleaped  it  at  a  bound. 

'Mid  which  the  skies  seemed  whirling  round ! 

I  stood  in  anguish,  and  aghast. 

With  listening  ear  a  moment  bowed, 

As  if  once  more  the  voice  to  hear 

Should  break  my  trance  of  dizzy  fear ! 

The  dark  old  door  was  just  a-jar, 

But  on  the  threshold  bound  I  stood : 
A  moan  came  trembling  from  afar — 

A  sound  that  froze  my  feverish  blood ; 
What  was  it  gave  that  anguish  birth ! — 
Was  that  her  last  complaint  on  earth? 
I  stayed  no  longer— madly  bore 
Against  the  loudly-opening  door — 
Frantic  I  trod  the  echoing  hall 
Down  which  I  saw  the  moonbeams  fall, 
From  a  small  window  up  the  stair;  — 
Her  room !  alas !  I  soon  was  there ! 
No  word — no  cry  was  uttered,  when 

I  had  a  glimpse  of  that  dear  face ; 
I  was  a  frozen  denizen — 

Grief  stricken,  in  a  holy  place : 
A  little  way  I  stood  apart, 
For  they  who  served  now  filled  the  space 
Between  me  and  the  object  of  my  heart. 

Ah,  woeful  end  of  love's  rare  dreaming! 
Was  this  a  cold  sepulchral  seeming? 
And  would  she  on  the  morrow  come, 
The  light  and  gladness  of  the  home, 


I' : 


I! 


ALICE  LEE. 


40 


Sweet  mistress  at  the  well-filled  board, 
With  brij^ht'iiing  face,  and  softly-spoken  word? 

Whs  thU  the  prize  for  which  I  came— 
The  beautiful,  unconscious  clay 
That  breathless,  pulseless,  voiceless  lay. 

Bearing  my  darling's  name? 

Alas,  for  me !  I  came  too  late ! — 
Ijove  cannot  stay  the  hand  of  Fate ; — 
The  spoiler  hastetli  to  destroy 

What  lived  and  blossomed  yesterday; 
He  takes  the  lustre  from  the  eye. 
And  from  the  cheeks  their  living  dye, 
Drinks  from  the  flower  its  sweet  perfume, 
Arrests  its  beauty  and  its  bloom, — 
While,  from  his  touch,  the  lover's  joy 

Flies  wildly,  like  a  frightened  bird,  away. 

I  came  too  late ! — a  rival  brave, 
Whose  valor  cannot  be  defied. 
Had  robbed  me  of  my  peerless  bride ! 

Dark  Death  had  wooed  her  for  the  grave ! 


My  star  had  faded,  just  as  I 
Had  chosen  it  to  be  my  guide, 
From  out  the  clusters  of  the  sky. 


r"^ 


tv.. 

She  dwelt  anioii^j:  tlic  untrodden  ways 

Ufside  the  springs  of  Dove, 
A  maid  whom  there  were  none  to  praise, 

And  very  few  to  love. 

A  violet  by  a  mossy  stone 

Half  hi(fden  from  the  eye! 
Fair  as  a  star,  whin  (niiy  one 

Is  shining  in  the  sky. 

She  lived  unknown,  am'  few  could  know 

When  I.,ucy  ceased  t(      e: 
But  she  is  in  her  jjrave,  and,  oh, 

The  diflerencc  to  me  ! 

— Wordsworth. 


It  is  a  fearful  thinij 
To  love  what  Death  may  touch. 


-Mrs.  Hemans. 


r^ALM  river  of  imfailiii«?  IVace! 

^^     Take  through  luy  heart  thy  restful  way; 

Bid  all  the  pains  of  soirow  cease — 

The  bitter  pains  of  that  sad  daj' 
When,  with  no  streiigtli'iiing-  angel  nigh, 
I  drained  the  cup  of  agony, 
Held  to  my  ashen  lips  by  him — 
The  swift  of  foot,  the  strong  of  limb. 
Lord  of  the  slain,  whom  none  can  slay. 

No  pitying,  dear,  Eternal  Eyes, 
Enriched  with  fond  self  sacrifice, 


i.(prr*" 


48 


ALICE  LEE. 


LI  ti| 

II 


Lit  up  the  gloomy  shades  of  woe 
Through  which  bruised  heart  and  faltering  feet 
must  go ; 
No  mild,  and  gently-soothing  voice, 
That,  ev'n  in  sorrow,  bids  rejoice. 
Had  spoken  then  the  mystic  cheer 
Which  since  it  has  been  mine  to  hear : 
Of  fairest  hopes  I  had  not  one ; 
In  my  despair  I  stood  alone! 

Nearer  I  drew  unto  her  side 

Who  in  the  bloom  of  youth  had  died 

To  this  dim-fading  world  of  ours — 

Of  trembling  age  and  failing  powers. 

The  farmer  bent  with  drooping  head 

Over  the  features  of  the  dead. 

And  his  white  locks  had  fallen  dov/n 

To  mingle  with  her  ringlets  brown, 

Just  as  he  chught  the  latest  sigh 

Of  one  too  j'oung  and  pure  to  die, — 

Unless  that  dying  means  to  be 

Alive  again — eternally! 

No  sound  of  mine  had  m(?t  his  ear, 

Nor  did  he  know  that  I  was  near, 

But  hung  above  the  sweetest  face 

That  e'er  wore  death  with  heavenly  grace  : 

He  saw  me  not ;  but  I  could  see 

Eyes  looking  piteouslj"^  at  me 

From  woman-faces,  clustered  near, 

All  full  of  sympathy  sincere ; 

They  marked  me  standing,  as  if  grown 

From  throbbing  flesh  to  pulseless  stone; 

And  knew  the  wilderment  and  pain 

That  stung  my  heart,  and  dazed  my  brain. 

The  farmer  rose,  and  turned,  all  slow 


ALICE  LEE. 


49 


And  tremulous,  as  if  to  go, 
But  saw  me  standing  at  his  side : 
"  Alas,  my  son !  alas ! "  he  cried ; 
And  streamed  his  eyes  with  tears  amain, — 
"•  Alas  for  us ! — 'tis  here  she  lies ! — 
No  longer  ours — a  daughter  of  the  skies." 


Then  clearly  1  beheld  that  face. 
On  which  death  yet  had  left  no  trace 
Save  snowy  slumber — such  repose 
As  gives  long  truce  to  cankering  woes : 
Unmarred,  unsullied,  still  she  lay. 
As  she  would  freshly  wake  with  day, 
And  come  from  healthy  slumber,  stirred 
At  summons  of  the  matin  bird. 
Long,  long  I  lingered,  silently, 
Gazing  upon  my  blighted  llower. 
No  more  to  bloom  in  sun  or  shower ; — 
By  me  ungathered — lost,  ah,  lost  to  me ! 
Saintliest,  when  all  the  fields  were  breathing  balm, 
now  in  Heaven's  eternal  calm. 


J-fLliJ   dc^iliuAiv^i 


But  when  the  angel-souls  arise 

From  walking  with  us  here. 
With  white  wings  spread  for  native  skies. 

To  mount  and  disappear. 
We  are  as  babes  on  foreign  shore. 
Who  see  their  kindred's  face  no  more. 
And  wildly  beg  the  stranger  train 
To  bring  their  mother  back  again. 
And  now  this  agony  was  mine; 
And  didst  thou  feel  my  woe,  O  Heart  Divine! 
Ah,  had  there  been  some  friendly  Power, 
With  Christ-like,  deep,  compassionate  eyes. 
To  bring  from  yonder  Paradise 


prW 


\<vi 


:iiii 


IP! 


60 


ALICE  LEE. 


My  beauteous  truant,  I  had  ^iven 
A  heart's  harmonious  sacrifice — 
The  richest  worsliip  known  in  Fleaven ! 
And  had  those  ej'es,  so  fondlj'  bright 
When  last  they  met  ray  yearning  sight, 
Unclosed  their  pearly  lids  for  me, 
No  heart,  or  human  or  divine. 
Had  known  a  rapture  more  than  mine. 

Alas !  Alas !  it  might  not  be ! 
Hushed  was  that  voice  of  former  glee : 
O  eyes !  sweet  eyes,  that  might  not  open  more ! 

0  ear !   now  dull,  that  once  so  quickly  heard — 
Thirsting  to  hear  — love's  most  endearing  word ! 

O  Alice !  lovely  form ! — 

No  longer  breathing,  warm, 
As  thus  in  calm  repose  j'ou  lay, 
As  your  sweet  spirit  passed  away, 
You  never  seemed  so  beautiful  before! 

A  gauzy  robe — her  bridal  dress — 

The  only  shroud  she  wished  to  wear — 
As  if  to  mock  at  my  distress. 

Was  lying  idly  there. 
There  violet  veins  tliat  tracked  the  snow 

Of  her  pure  brow  grew  colorless ; 
Yet  a  pale  tint  her  lips  did  show. 
As  death  had  stol'n  her  spirit  with  a  kiss. 
Still,  as  I  gazed,  she  ever  fairer  grew. 

As  if  she  shone  upon  my  sight; 
And  her  wavy  hair  l»ad  darker  hue, 

Upon  her  brow  so  wiiite. 
And,  as  I  watched  her  still,  transfigured  mien, 
Yet  knew  how  coldly  she  was  lying  there, 

1  thought  of  all  that  she  to  me  had  been. 


ALICE  LEE. 


51 


And  all  she  might  have  been,  did  she  not  wear 
Heaven's  guise,  so  seraph-like,  and  so  serene : 
As  a  bird,  o'er  its  rifled  nest,     , 
With  thorny  sorrow  in  its  breast, 
I,  with  unutterable  pain. 

Hovered  o'er  her  pale  face  again, — 

As  if  I  sought  for  smile  or  tear. 

To  tell  of  love  and  life  still  near. 

While  all  my  seeking  was  in  vain. 

Benumbed,  at  first,  I  had  not  felt 
The  sudden  blow  upon  me  dealt; 
But  with  the  dawning's  clouded  gray. 
And  the  first  peeping  light  of  day, 
Mj'^  sense  with  quick  acuteness  came ; 

Mv  heart  was  toiling  in  a  sea 

Of  most  tempestuous  agony. 
My  brain  was  hot  with  fever  flame. 
I  know  not  what  I  did ;  but  they 
Who  watched  the  silent  chamber,  say 
I  stroked  her  brow — toyed  with  each  tress. 
And  fell,  with  many  a  wild  caress. 
Calling,  in  piteous  words  and  burning, 
On  her,  so  far  removed  from  tears  and  mourning. 

By  day,  b}'  night,  I  never  slept. 
My  long  and  lonely  watch  I  kept; 
Jealous  of  death  and  of  decay, 
I  sought  to  ward  their  power  away; 
Of  her  sweet  singing  soul  bereft, 
I  madly  clung  to  what  was  left. 
As  dreading  the  approaching  day 
When  it  must  sleep  in  couch  of  clay. 
Oft,  pitying  the  lonely  grief 
That  asked  not  comfort  nor  relief, 
They  came  to  me  with  the  request 


52 


ALICE  LEE, 


m 


;i! 


That  they  might  watch,  and  bid  me  rest; 

While  the  old  farmer  wept  and  smiled 

To  see  me  linger  o'er  his  child. 

And  pressed  my  brow  with  the  brown  hand 

Roughened  by  toil,  by  sunshine  tanned : — 

And  well  he  might,  to  sec  me  kiss 

The  lips  so  mute  and  motionless. 

And  lavish  fondness  on  the  form 

The  soul  had  lelt  to  dust  and  worm ! 

I  could  not  speak,  but  shook  my  head ; 

They  passed  away  with  noisless  tread. 

And  left  me  lonely  with  my  dead : 

I  heard  their  footsteps  on  the  stair, 

Their  murmur'd  words  rose  on  the  air; 

Soon  came  the  closing  of  the  doors ; 

Then  upward  stole  the  tones  of  prayer. 

From  one  who  wresthss  and  implores, 

And  plucks  a  hope  from  his  despair; 

It  faltered — ceased — and  night  again 

Resumed  the  silence  of  its  reign  ; 

The  clock,  whose  pendulum's  measured  swing 

Seemed  movement  of  a  living  thing, 

Ticked  slowly,  while  I  watched  the  dead 

Dear  face  of  love ; — while,  near  at  hand, 

The  taper  burning  on  the  stand. 
Waned,  and  again  flared  momently  anew, 
And  on  the  wall  my  wavering  shadow  threw. 

A  stupor  crept  upon  my  brain : — 

The  soft  enchanted  hand  of  Sleep 
Picked  out  the  pointed  barbs  of  pain, 
And  dropt  in  balm ;  while,  deft  as  snowflakes  creep 
Down  some  wild  waste  of  sky,  lo !  vision'd  forms 
descended ! — 
It  was  my  darling,  by  a  train  attended, 


ALICE  LEE. 


58 


Coming,  irradiate,  back  to  me  again ! 
Ah !  could  we,  lost  in  woeful  worlds,  but  keep 

Such  fond  conceits  and  visions  rare — 
Would  they  but  cling  to  us.  as  grief  and  care. 

We  should  not  wake  so  wearily  to  weep ! 

I  dreamed — illusion  false  and  vain ! 
I  saw  her  living  face  again. 

And  the  love-sparkle  in  her  eyes ; 
Her  lips,  with  mirthful  music  running  o'er. 

As  light  o'erflows  the  morning  skies ; 
Again  1  held  her  hand,  and  heard  once  more 

That  welcome  accent,  which  to  me 
Was  sweeter  than  angelic  harmony; 

Again  I  stood  on  the  hillside 

With  her,  and  saw  the  crimson  pride 

Of  sunset,  while  its  mingled  gold 
And  crimson  all  the  west  intlamed  and  dyed ; 

Again  my  love  I  warmly  told. 
And  plead  anew  the  lover's  plea : 
Then,  as  she  made  her  low  reply 
To  welcome  importunity — 
Easing  her  heart  with  her  sweet  sigh — 

0  wild  dismay! — O  misery! — 

1  woke  her  pallid  face  to  see ! 

Among  the  rustling  elms  outside 

The  night-winds  came,  and  moaning,  died : 

Some  svvaying  twigs,  once  and  again. 

Switched  against  the  window  pane. 

I  was  alone  beside  mj'  dead : 

How  close  to  her's  I  leaned  my  head ! 

But  when  the  morrow's  sun  should  shine, 

Low  in  the  grave's  deserted  shrine 

She  must  be  hidden  from  mine  eye. 


M 


64 


ALICE  LEE. 


Dismaying?  truth  !  as  witlierins;  flame 

Scorchliijif  my  licarr.  that  UK'inory  came ! 

Why  was  1  thus  alone— IxTcft, 

Without  a  hope  or  sohict;  left? 

I  searched  for  no  divine  intent. 

Saw  notliin^  wise  and  i)rovident 

On  which  iny  spirit  couhl  rely; 

But  throned  in  universiil  state. 

A  blind,  resistless,  crushin<;  Fate — 

A  cold,  impassive  Deity, 

My  clouded  eyes  alone  could  see. 

Torn  with  my  an(]juish,  ton<;ue  made  free 

Its  wailing  cry  of  agony — 

•'O  Alice  I" — Silence  answered  me. 
Save  that,  wild  wrestling  with  tlie  great  elm  tree, 
'i'he  moaning  hlast  swept  by; 

But  louder  rang  the  cry  of  woe, 

That  gave  my  sorrow  overllow. 

Wild  words  I  spoke,  and  grief  is  wild 

In  hearts  that  mourn  unreconciled; 
I  only  asked  to  die — 

X  cared  no  more  for  death  or  doom. 

The  world  was  but  a  living  tomb. 

And  life,  one  endless  sigh  ! 

But  sorrow's  tide  had  ris'n  too  high. 

And  my  o'ertasked  and  tortured  brain 

Sank  all  unconscious  of  its  pain: 

He  found  me  lying  on  the  floor. 

Who  came  the  earliest  to  the  door. 

Jjong  time,  deliriously  [  lay, 

Harrow'd  by  dreams  of  shapes  of  fear, — 
Until  one  morn.  wIkui.  warl)ling  clear, 
A  bird,  lodged  in  the  elm  tree  near 

My  window,  woke  me   with  the  day. 


ALICE  LEE. 


66 


And  drove  tlie  phantom  forms  away. 
Till  then  no  soft'ning  Impulse  came. 
My  heart  had  been  as  mingled  dust  and  flame; 
But  I  could  weep — swift  tears  arose, 
And  heavenly  healing  for  my  woes; 
For  something  from  that  wrestling  prayer, 
Like  angel  whispers  in  the  air. 
Had  stirred  the  calm  of  my  despair; 
And  something  of  seraphic  gh^am 
Was  lingering  round  me  from  my  dream; 
I  felt  that,  from  her  place  on  high. 
Her  gentle  spirit  had  been  nigh. 
To  soothe  my  heart's  great  agony. 
The  bed  whereon  I  oft  had  lain 
Now  held  my  wasted  limbs  again : 
I  strove  my  clustering  thoughts  to  speak, 
But  failed — an  infant  not  so  weak ; 
When,  gentle  chiding  and  command 
Came  whispered— and  I  saw  a  hand 
Upraised — my  sister's  !     Swift  she  came 
To  watch  me  through  the  fever  flame, 
And  with  pain'd  heart,  and  bated  breath. 
To  mn-se  me  at  the  gates  of  death. 


And  woo  me  back  to  life 


agiun. 


Little  untold  doth  yet  remain  : 

My  kinsfolk  would  have  led  me  to 

The  place  my  earliest  childhood  knew — 

Said,  •'  Dwell  with  us."     1  answered,  ''  Nay  :"- 

My  settled  choice  it  was  to  stay. 

And  here  my  life  was  worn  away. 

But  he  was  gone — I  did  not  see 

The  well-worn  form  of  farmer  Lee, 

But  found,  when  1  had  strength  to  stray 

Along  the  grassy  churchyard  way, 


I       tl 


66 


ALICE  LEE. 


Two  recent  graves  beneath  the  shade, 
The  sexton  side  by  side  had  made. 

Stranger  I  the  frosts  of  many  a  year 

Have  f all'n  on  tne — these  loclcs  are  gray ; 
The  leafage  of  my  life  is  sere, 

And  soon  must  fall  away ; 
But  to  mj'^  storm-tried  soul  are  given 
The  consolations  born  of  Heaven ; 
I  wait  the  bride  who,  still,  in  death 
Commands  ray  love,  and  wins  my  faith ; 
The  hope  I  cherish  is  my  better  part, 
With  saintly  Sorrow,  precious  to  my  heart. 


AT   THK    QRAVE  OK  A    POKT. 


"The  humblest  of  all  sepulchres." — Byron.    "Churchill's  Graved 

"  Yet  after  he  was  dead  and  gone, 

And  e'en  his  memory  dim, 
Earth  seemed  more  sweet  to  live  upon, 
More  full  of  love  because  of  him.'' 

—James  Russell  Lowell. 


RO  stone  was  there  to  mark  his  tomb, 
For  none  were  left  to  place  it; 
A  damp  wind  wail'd  his  dirge  of  doom. 

And  sighed  a  lorn  hie  jacet  ;* 
A  leafless  tree  stretch'd,  pitiful, 
•  Its  gaunt  arras,  scar'd  and  smitten ; 
Sure,  in  this  withering  sentinel 
The  Poet's  doom  was  written ! 

No  foot,  save  hers  he  lov'd  to  hear. 

Came  near  to  break  his  slumber ; 
Her  weeping  voice  might  reach  his  ear, 

Low  in  his  hollow  chamber : 
But  even  she  should  come  no  more — 

Her  mournful  days  are  over ; 
On  Beauty's  amaranthine  shore 

She  clasps  her  minstrel  lover. 

I.    Here  lies. 


58 


AT  THE  GBAVE  OF  A  POET. 


So  well  he  lov'tl  the  flowery  race, 

So  clear  he  saii^  their  praises. 
Violets  should  throng  his  resting  place, 

And  nodding,  white-faced  daisies: 
But  few  and  simple  blooms  1  brought. 

From  fleld  and  garden  talien  ;— 
1  could  not  bear  to  see  the  spot 

So  utterly  forsalcen. 

And,  standing  by  the  nameless  mound, 

Witli  moss  and  weed  grown  rankly, 
VVhere  all  tlie  darlv,  surrounding  ground 

Tlie  mullen  shaded  danlvly, — 
With  pensive  tear  I  moiirn'd  the  dead, 

And  lonelier  felt  without  liim. 
Musing  o'er  words  the  world  had  said, 

Too  carelessly,  about  him. 

''  Here  lies  a  hapless  child  of  rhyme — 

A  life  decay'd  and  wasted ; 
He  knew  the  pleasures  of  his  time, 

Though  few  of  them  he  tasted  : 
Much  did  he  know,  who  sleeps  below. 

Of  human  care  and  sorrow  : — 
Peace  comes  to-day ;  nor  want  nor  woe 

Shall  mar  his  rest  to-morrow." 

So  kindlj'^  souls  may  speak,  who  know 

Not  cause  for  song,  but  sighing; 
Whose  eyes  look  not  to  deeps  below, 

Where  spirit-gems  are  lying; — 
The  caieful  ones,  in  prudence  great, 

Who  ever  fear  the  losing; 
Nor  sit  at  heavenly  Beauty's  feet, 

Their  better  portion  choosing. 


AT  THE  GRAVE  OF  A  POET. 


Apart  from  niou  tlio  Poet  dwcUa; 

\Vh(M'f»  minstrel-spirits  lead  Iiim 
Ho  walks,  'mid  unvoicM  oraoles. 

With  tlioujfhts  that  tire  and  fecMl  liini, — 
Away!  Awaj'!  the  llvelonfj  daj'. 

Thro'  haunted  wood  and  meadow. 
'Mid  dews  of  dawn,  and  sunset's  ray. 

And  this  world's  starry  shadow. 

But  wan  and  faint  the  Poet  grows. 

From  his  own  elassie  dreannng; 
While  o'er  the  nijj^htingale's  repose 

Is  heard  the  jay's  harsli  screaming; — 
But  wan  and  pale  the  l*oet  grows. 

And  mourns  when  lie  remembers 
That  now  the  the  no  longer  glows 

Amid  his  ashy  (unbers. 

But  there  are  colder  hearts  than  move 

To  rapture  and  to  pity ; 
And  Dullness  doth  his  songs  reprove, 

And  Wisdom's  stern  committee  : 
*'  Avaunt!   these  sons  of  useless  rhyme. 

All  idle  follies  tinding; 
TJttle  they  do  to  serve  their  time. 

Or  keep  the  world-stones  grinding. 

'•Few  be  these  children  overgrown, 

In  manly  pith  so  wanting. 
Who  sidk  in  corners — rave  alone — 

Their  sicklj'  folly  vaunting ! 
What  are  their  silly  songs,  to  win 

Such  praise  as  comes  to  merit? — 
Vain  dreamers,  they!    in  thought  as  thin. 

As  they  are  poor  in  spirit!'" 


1 .     "  The  world,  for  so  it  thought, 
Owed  him  no  service  ;   wherefore  he  at  once 
With  iiidij^nation  turned  himself  away. 
And  with  tlie  food  of  pride  sustiiined  liis  soul 
In  solitude."  —Wordsworth. 


i 


60 


AT  THE  OSAVE  OF  A  POET. 


Curl,  ye  cool  lip,  with  frosty  aoorn, 

Ye  no'er  were  toucli'd  with  llro! — 
And  ye,  to  no  wild  niptures  born, 

May  spurn  the  lute  and  lyre: 
Your  dull  realities  belong 

To  you — your  tame  derision ; 
Not  saintly  Milton's  hallowed  song, 

Not  Dante's  wondrous  vision ! 

The  lips  now  silent  'neath  this  clay. 

Spake  words  of  noblest  beauty — 
Spake  words  that  cheer  life's  lowliest  way, 

And  light  the  tasks  of  duty; 
His  tongue  had  golden  speech,  beyond 

Our  uiarring  or  our  mending. — 
Words,  that  a  glittering  pathway  found, 

Like  forms  of  light  ascending. 

And  said  I,  that  he  dwelt  alone. 

For  fellowship  repining? 
Na}'^ !  nay !  the  best  the  world  has  known— 

A  singing  group,  and  shining — 
Were  his ;  the  bright  companionship 

Of  bards : — no  thought  was  vapid. 
Flowing  from  each  most  honied  lip. 

With  music,  wild  and  rapid. 

Ilis  were  such  pure  and  high  delights 

As  charm  a  soul  untainted; 
With  him,  upon  the  Muses'  heights. 

Walked  holy  ones  and  sainted ; 
The  phantom.  Beauty,  at  his  side, 

Transform'd  the  frail  and  human, 


AT  THE  OliAVE  OF  A  POET. 


Till,  by  tho  Poet  gloilHeil, 
Was  nothing  niejiii  or  common.' 

O,  do  not  lightly  Marae  the  Bard, 

Who  shigs  and  suffers  for  thee;' 
For  thou  must  give  liiin  thy  regard, 

Ere  he  to  thee  seem  worthy : 
Yield  him  no  careless,  fSghtlng  thought, 

Rut  reverently  prove  him  : 
They  love  him  not  who  know  him  not,— 

To  know  him  Is  to  love  him. 

Ah!  who  would  scorn  the  Poet's  lot, 

Tho'  painful,  and  tho'  lonely?— 
Or  think  to  feel  ennobled  thought, 

And  high-born  rapture  only? 
They  mingling  come — the  smile,  the  tear, 

The  How  of  pain  and  pleasure, — 
Upsweeping  wafts  of  music  clear, 

And  many  a  low-breathed  measure. 

But  Beauty  with  the  Poet  lives 

Forever  and  forever; 
And  Music,  sweet  as  memory  gives, 

Dies  from  his  dreaming  never; 
Not  all  the  din  of  street  or  mart. 

Can  dull  the  spirit's  rhyming, 
Nor  banish  from  his  haunted  heart 

That  song's  eternal  chiming. 

Ills  lark  is  ever  in  the  cloud. 
To  fill  his  heaven  with  singing; 

1 .  "Daily  life  and  duty  seemed 

No  longer  poor  and  common." 

—  Wkittier  on  Burns. 

2.  "Cradled  into  poetry  by  wrong, 

L,earning  in  suflering  what  they  teach  in  song." 

—  Shell.'v. 
8 


62 


AT  THE  GRAVE  OF  A  POET. 


Fresli  leaves  are  ever  where  aloud 
ITis  thrushes  glad  are  ringing; 

Morn  lives  ev'n  in  his  sunset  glow, 
His  east  and  west  illuming; 

And,  over  all  his  fields  of  snow. 
He  sees  the  daisies  blooinlng. 

O,  cold  in  hearr.  and  dull  in  ear! 

What  j'e  have  counted  folly 
Makes  earth  appear  less  tame  and  drear. 

And  life  less  melancholy  : 
The  Bard  and  Hero  crown  their  race ; — 

While  ev'n  the  godlike  Hector 
Shines  in  the  light  of  Homer's  face. 

And  owns  his  benefa(;tor. 

The  Poet  lifts  the  hearts  of  men 

To  true  ai)i)reciation ; 
Outsoars  the  critic's  blasting  pen — 

His  fulsome  adulation : 
Soon,  soon  the  wronged  and  buried  Past 

Triumi>hs  o'er  long  rejection  ! 
Genius  and  worth  obtain  at  last, 

In  nohle  resurrection. 

Must  Genius  want,  and  Goodness  groan, 

A  joyless  path  pursuing':* 
Aud  must  posteiity  alone 

Commend  a  worthy  doing? 
Must  hapless  poets  sing  and  sigh. 

Where  but  the  Muse  repaj^s  them ; 
And  when  their  wretched  bodies  die, 

The  world  begin  to  praise  them? 

Grim  Want  came  to  the  Poet's  door. 
And  cheerful  Health  departed; 


AT  THE  GBAVE  OF  A  POET. 


63 


Prostrate  lie  lay,  alone  and  poor. 

And  almost  broken-hearted : 
Few  friends,  but  \vortli}%  came — their  free 

And  generous  friendship  proving; 
They  calmed  to  sweet  serenity 

His  tender  heart  and  loving. 

But  they  are  gone  I  he  slumbers  here, 

Apart  from  every  other  I — 
The  child  of  song,  ine  heart  sincere. 

The  kindly  friend — the  brotluirl 
But  conscious  Nature  mourn'd  I — the  brook 

Murmur'd  of  the  (h^parted ; 
The  hillj  put  on  a  mournful  look; 

The  trees  seem'd  broken-hearted. 

And  does  lie  know  when  Spring  returns. 

Who  sang  her  joys  so  sweetly  V — 
When  violets  spring  by  meadow  burns,' 

Whose  crystal  llow(*tli  lleetlyV 
Ah  I  ill  this  dreary,  desert  place. 

Where  long  ago  they  laid  him, 
Comes  she,  with  l)eauty  and  with  grace, 

Such  as  she  once  convey 'd  him? 

Rest,  child  of  song  I  whose  eyes  are  dim, 

That  thought  would  once  illumine; 
No  more  tiieir  ample  orbs  shall  swim 

With  tears  so  sweetly  human  : 
This  mossy  mound  alone  may  show 

Where  unite  and  chill  is  lying 
The  heart  that  bl«;d  for  every  woe. 

While  yot  itself  was  dying  I 

Rest  thee,  lov'd  Bard  I  for  this,  alone — 
This  ground  may  no  man  grudge  thee  I 


I.  Brooks. 


64 


AT  THE  GBAVE  OF  A  POET. 


The  world,  that  gave  not  ev'n  a  stone^ 
Perchance,  forgets  to  judge  thee : 

My  simple  wreath  I  here  bestow — 
With  tears  I  here  bestow  it ! 

For  in  my  heart  enshrined,  I  know. 
Thou  art  forever — Poet ! 

l'envoy. 
A  stone  I  brought  to  mark  his  tomb, 

With  sculptured  scroll  to  grace  it ; 
The  wild-rose  lent  its  simple  bloom, 

The  wild-vine  crept  t'  embrace  it ; 
I  hedged  about  the  vacant  lot 

With  thorns,  whence  flowers  might  waken, 
That  those  who  came  should  see  the  spot 

Not  utterly  forsaken. 


t| 


li 


■\ 


THE    KNTHUSIASX. 


'•  Now  to  determine  the  day  and  the  year  of  this  inevitable  time  is  not  only 
convincible  and  statute  madness,  but  also  manifest  impiety." 

— Sir  Thomas  Browne.    Religio  Medici. 


|WAS  on  an  April  eve, 

When  earth  and  air  were  still: 
No  breathing  wind  with  me  had  leave 

To  wander  o'er  the  hill, 
That,  hare  and  dusk,  'gainst  sunset's  glow, 
Had  yet  its  ghostly  spots  of  snow. 

Soon  as  eve's  loveliest  star 

Looked  forth  with  lucent  ray, 
I  paced  the  russet  fields  afar, 

A  wide  and  aimless  way : 
And,  as  I  went,  I  felt  depart 
The  fret  and  fever  from  my  heart. 

Welcome !  thou  silent  hour ! — 

The  horn-  belov'd  by  all, 
When  o'er  the  heart,  with  soothing  power, 

Soft  balms  and  shadows  fall, — 
Low  let  thy  snnset  glories  burn, 
For  I  am  glad  of  thy  return. 

Then  mildly,  hung  on  high. 
Shone  Dian's  golden  ring ; 


66 


THE  ENTHUSIAST. 


And,  in  the  cedar-thicket  nigh, 

1  heard  a  robin  sing : 
From  flowing  rill,  and  sighing  pine, 
A  feeling  of  the  Spring  was  mine. 

My  winter-wearied  eye 

Deemed  flowerless  fields  were  fair ; 
And,  as  I  drew  exu'.tingly 

The  freshness  of  the  air, 
I  scarce  could  win  a  glow  more  tine 
From  beakers  of  elysian  wine. 

Ah,  how  harmonions-fair 

Is  Nature's  equal  frame! 
How  doth  she  constant   witness  bear 

Of  Him  from  whom  she  came ! 
How  doth  she,  from  her  Author  true. 
Her  youth  perpetually  renew! 

But  as  the  shades  came  on. 

And  many  a  star  outshone. 
Bright  as  the  beacon  of  the  dawn, 

One  blazed  aloft  alone, — 
And  trailed  behind  along  the  night 
A  paly  train  of  glimmering  light. 

While  from  the  hill-top  high,' 
I  watched  the  river's  flow, 

A  reverend  man  of  eld  drew  nigh, 
With  faltering  steps,  and  slow : 

His  wrinkled  face,  his  win    ned  hair. 

And  tottering  gait,  engaged  my  care. 


I.  Deane  Hill,  Orrington,  overlooking  the  Penobscot.  These  verses  are 
an  outgrowth  of  my  Second  Advent  impressions,  obtained  in  that  town  dur- 
ing a  uirec  years'  pastorate. 


THE  ENTHUSIAST. 


67 


And  oft  he  pausod,  aiul  turned. 

With  luiiny  an  upward  ghmce. 
As  thouofh,  whore  calmly  gloomed  and  burned 

The  sky's  serene  expanse, 
'Mid  chambers  of  inrniity. 
He  sought  what  most  he  loved  to  see. 

"  Tell  me.  O  reverend  sire !" 

I  said,  as  near  he  came ; 
'•  Is  it  the  opening  Spring's  desire 

That  thrills  thy  trembling  frame. 
And  draws  thee  forth  at  this  sweet  hour, 
To  test  boon  Nature's  healing  power? 


fp 


''  No  breathing  of  soft  airs, 

Nor  fancies  of  the  Spring. 
Can  from  his  deeds  of  alms  and  prayers 

The  hoary  i)ilgrim  i)ring  : 
/come  to  watch  Heaven's  latest  sign, 
And  see  God's  fiery  signet  shine. 

Oitrs  is  the  latest  day 

This  unpurged  earth  shall  see; 
Yon  crescent  fire  is  set  to  say 

That  Time  no  more  shall  be." 
I  then  replied  :  "  That  hour  of  woes 
Nor  man,  nor  angel,  surely  knows. 

••  This  knowledge  God  has  given  : 

There  is  a  time  when  fire 
Up  to  the  battlements  of  heaven 

Shall  kindle  and  aspire. 
And  earth  a  blazing  cinder  glow, — 
But  who  the  fateful  hour  may  knoio  ?" 

*'  Yea.  by  the  wise  in  heart 
May  all  the  signs  be  read 


68 


THE  ENTHUSIAST. 


\% 


That  teacli  wlien  heaven  and  earth  depart," 

The  aged  pilgrim  said ; 
"  He  comes!  to  whom  the  worlds  belong; 
And  they  who  wait,  shall  not  wait  long." 

I  nightly  watch  to  see 

The  angel-pinion  spread. 
And  hear  that  vocal  mystery 

Which  mnst  aronse  the  dead. 
Louder  than  seas'  and  thunders'  roar. 
Proclaiming, — Time  shall  be  no  more !" 

*'  Ah,  reverend  sire!"  I  said, 

'^  The  eyes  that  now  grow  dim, 
In  noon's  bright  tent,  or  midnight  shade, 

Must  vainly  searcli  for  Him  : 
The  vigil  profitless  resign. 
Nor  make  the  Almighty's  secret — thine! 

"  And  if  to-night  there  shined 

His  presence  in  the  void. 
What  better  than  that  He  should  find 

His  servant  well  emploj-ed? 
What  matters  whether  faithful  eyes 
Be  turned  upon  the  earth,  or  skies?' 

I.  "  Occupy  till  I  come,"  is  the  Master's  injunction;  and  this  Abraham 
Davenport  obeyed  to  the  letter,  when,  as  related  in  Whittier's  verse,  the 
startled  lawgivers  rxclaiined : 

"  It  is  the  Lord's  Great  Day!     Let  us  adjourn." 
*        *        ♦        And  then,  as  if  with  one  accord. 
All  eyes  were  turned  to  Abraham  Davenport. 
He  rose,  slow  cleaving  with  his  steady  voice 
The  intolerable  hush.    "This  well  may  be 
The  Dav  of  Judgment  which  the  world  awaits ; 
But  be  it  so  or  not,  I  only  know 
My  present  duty,  and  my  Lord's  command 
To  occupy  till  he  come.     So  at  the  post 
Where  he  hath  set  me  in  his  proviuence, 
I  choose,  for  one,  to  meet  him  face  to  face, — 
No  faithless  servant  frightened  from  my  task, 
But  ready  when  the  Lord  of  the  harvest  calls." 


THE  ENTHUSIAST. 


60 


"Oil.  o'er  thy  niiiul  distraiii^ht 

Let  this  cahn  evening  steal! 
These  airs,  o'er  thy  distempered  tliought, 

Shall  moderate  its  zeal, 
And  to  its  fuM'y  fervor  join 
A  reason,  temperate,  yet  divine." 

Then,  prophet-like,  he  seemed 

To  lose  the  sense  of  age ; 
Ilis  eyes  with  piercing  lustre  gleamed, 

And  liigh  seraphic  rage ; 
Sublimely  stern,  his  lips  employ 
The  accents  of  a  mighty  joy  I 

Like  prince's  jewelled  tire 

His  tattered  vest  he  wore; 
And  with  a  high  enthusiast  ire 

Ilis  loftj'  front  he  bore; — 
A  grandeur,  as  of  star  and  sea, 
Had  his  impassioned  augiuy ! 

"  Rewaie!  O  faithless  man  I 

The  archangelic  train 
Cometh  with  rolling  clouds! — His  van 

Shall  pierce  you  jcrial  main  ! — 
Death  shall  not  close  these  eyes  so  dim  !'- 
These  eyes  that  fondly  look  for  Him  ! 

Vain  youth  I  uplift  thine  eye 
Where,  'mid  the  starry  quire. 


I.  There  have  been  nicnlcrn  expectant  Elijahs,  averrinuf  that  they  shouUl 
never  die,  liut  would  he  clianjj'ed,  and  ascend  witli  Christ,  and  so  esc;i|ie  tlie 
ck)ds  of  the  valley  ;  but  they  come  to  the  confession  :  "  I  have  been  mistaken. 
I  shall  die,  and  g'o  down  to  the  ^fi'ive,  as  my  fathers  have  done  before  me." 


9 


70 


THE  ENTHUSIAST. 


.11 


ir 


IJroad-tlaslics,  in  our  noi-tlieni  skj-, 

Von  scimitar  of  tiro  I' 
Head  what  porlciids  that  Jlamhi/j  brand, — 
The  end  of  (til  tliimja  is  at  hand  I 

"  liohold  thy  Lord  appear! 

See  Ids  resplciidoiit  cai"! — 
Ev'ii  now.  irradiate,  (h"a\vs  it  near — 

I  hail  its  sound,  afar! 
Prostrate  tlijscdf,  youn^?  man  ! — prepare 
To  meet  tliy  Master  in  the  air!" 

And  then  Ins  voice  took  on 

A  i)Ieadin<^.  monrnfid  tone; 
And  tliat  niajesti(;  look  was  <^one. 

Which  nn<iiit  befit  a  throne  : 
With  hands  upraised,  as  if  for  aid. 
For  his  descending  Lord  he  prayed  : 

"  Come,  to  this  house  of  moan — 

The  home  of  woe  and  grief — 
Dear  sufferer!  from  Thy  snowy  throne 

Descend  to  our  relief! 
We  weary  'mid  this  ni*^ht  of  tears, 
Till  Thy  celestial  dawn  ai)pears ! 

"•  Come  !  we  Thy  Name  revere ! — 

Thou  didst  our  burdens  bear, 
Didst  shed  on  earth  a  human  tear, 

And  breathe  a  human  i)ra)'er : 
Now  let  us  see  tiiee !     Come  Thou  nigh, 
And  raise  Thy  children  to  the  sky ! 

*•  Thy  people  are  accursed — 
By  men  reviled  and  scorned; 

I.    A  comet  was  predicted  about  this   time,  but,  if  it  became  visible,  I 
could  never  see  it. 


i'i 


THE  ENTHUSIAST. 


71 


Spurned  by  the  hjisost  aiid  tlio  worst. 
Long  have  their  children  niourned! 
Avenge  their  wrongs  I  Dciscend !  descend ! 
And  let  tlieir  sorrows  Inive  an  end  I 

*' Thon  eoniestl"  wild  lie  cried; 

'•'  Thou  didst  not  long  delay! 
I  liear,  ev'n  tunr)^  Thy  chariot  ride 

Adown  the  starry  way ! — 
Down — down  Thy  hai'ness'd  angels  sweep! — 
Thy  jndgnieiit  tires  arc  on  the  de«'p  I 

**  I  see — I  see  Iliin  come 

Down  yon  dissolving  skies! 
Behold!  the  nations  of  the  tomb — 

The  shnnbering  nations — risii!" 
I  looked:  and  frenzy  bla/(!d  and  shone 
Wild  in  a  madman's  e3'es.  alone ! 

He  vanished.     Came,  with  morn. 

The  snn  "mid  splendors  red. 
Cahnly,  and  as  in  ro3al  scorn — 

But  the  old  man  was  dead ! 
Fanatic  lire  burned  reason  l)lind. 
And  withering  ashes  left  behind. 

God's  promises  are  true. 

Nor  shall  His  threat'nings  Tail ; 
Though   heaven  and  earth  depai't  from  view. 

His  counsel  nuist  prevail : 
But  who  may  be  the  seer,  whose  eyes 
Can  read  this  secret  of  the  skies? 


I: 


BURNS     KKMEJn/IBEKKO. 


JANUARY  25y  1SS5. 

Ah  !  yc've  been  wi'  the  imh'Ls,  siiy  yc?  Truth,  an'they's  rtnc  fellows,  inaist 
o'  them;  thouijh  the  cliiels  h;ie  afti'ii  heeii  ^i'eii  over  to  want  and  sorra.  Hut 
a  memher  o' the  ehaiitiiiif  ^viihl  there  is  tliat  will  lie  clieiry  ami  hlithesonie, 
and  will  K'''"  ■'"'  ''•"■'  '•'•'^  san^  an'  joke,  i'  the  vcrra  teeth  o"  niisfortune.  The 
poets  are  a  tine  family,  indeed ;  tlum^li  winsome  Uobin's  the  best  av  a'. 

EMOKV,  (lau^^hinjrly.) 

Yes,  we  expect  you  to  say  so.  It  is  very  natural  for  a  Scotchman  out  of 
Scotland  to  think  poetry  means  Burns.  Thi're  wiTe  poct>  hefori'  the  IJaril; 
Uiere  have  been  since.     Have  you  no  car  for  the  songs  of  to-<lay? 


MACl  AUI.IN. 


Ay,  ayl    tuneful  birds  sin;^:  now,  I  make  no  question;    but  uaething, 
pared  wi'  Robin.     What's  the  name  of  tlie  chanter,  asks, 


com- 


"What  bird  in  beauty,  lli^rht  or  sony. 
Can  with  the  bard  compare?" 


Well  may  he  question'.  Wlia  is  like  Scotland's  Hums,  wi'  a'  his  fau'ts  an' 
frenzies?  Whalsanji's  ha'c  a  lilt  sae  fresii  and  free,  sae  heartsome  an'  nature- 
like;   imtil  we  can  hear  the  lin'-'-' '  ■ '  '"  ■  '  *'■  ■  *' - ' 

Doon,  an'  blossomy  j^^owans,  in 
lucky-luckless  niountaui  daisy? 


,es  :  >y  iiai  .-^aii^s  11  a  v  a  iiiL  >iie  11  l  ^ji  aiui  net,  .>,ie  iieai  LMime  an  1  lai  11  re- 
like  ;  until  we  can  hear  the  lintwhite  and  mavis,  an'  feel  the  thorny  rose  o' 
Doon,  an'  blossomy  j^^owans,  in  his  lic|uiil  music — saving  luiething  about  that 


EMORY. 

Yes;  and  saying^  nothinjr  about  Uie  Jolly  Beggars. 

MACIAKI.IN,   (exciteiUy.) 

I  ken  ua  whot  ye  may  think,  Meenister — I  ken  ua  how  ye  may  feel;  !)ut  I 
maun  speak  kindly  o'  my  puir,  pnir  Robbie  I  I  si  e  his  tace  in  some  divine 
rapture — the  tlasli  o' his  woiulerful  eye — his  memorable  form  ;  and  I  cannot 
slight  or  scorn  him.  Inileeil  he  was  nae  saunt — the  mair's  the  ])itvl — though 
he  could  pray,  an'  do  so  awfully,  Maister  Saunders  Proudtil  tells  us,  when 
ither  drunken  louts  thocht  only  o'  snoring.  But  he  was  verra  honest,  and 
his  heart  was  aye  tender,  and  he  was  the  chiel  o'  dool  an'  misfortune,  even 
fram  his  cradle.  I  feel  toward  him  as  a  duel  o'  my  ain — ma  ain  wee,  bonnie 
buirnie — bless  his  cherub  ficel — I  have  not  seen  these  vears  ! 


I!  I; 


74 


BURNS  REMEMBERED. 


EMORY,  (iisidc.) 

Listen  to  that  soliloquy  1— thosu  guntle,  brooding  tones !     Whurc  can  tlie 
child  be? 


out 
ane 


MACKAKLIN. 

He  came  before  nie  this  c't'iiinir  as  I  sat  laiiely,  jjlowcriii'  a'  the  ciieer 
o' tile  injfle;  and  a' was  hriclit,  tnouy^li  I  driaiiud  'till  tin  Icine  was  jj: 
out.  1  thocht  o'  my  wit'c  an  weans  far  over  ayoiit  tliu  wcltcriii'  blue,  in 
bonny  Scotlaiul.  Sicins  I  could  fold  tin  m  in  my  arms,  wi'  a' tlie  distance; 
an' tears  misted  my  ten,  as  tiie  towers  o'  (ilnsi^ii'  rose  liefore  me,  with  the 
high  Caledonian  lulls;  fur  in  my  ima^^ine  1  trnd  the  iiromnielaw,  felt  the 
rush  o'  the  sea-breeze,  an'  swept  wi'  lovin'  ^rlances  "the  sweet  curve  o' 
Rothesay  Uay."  liut  the  dearest  bairn  ava  is  not  there  amang  them;  he  is 
in  Heaven, — and  sae,  1  liopi,  is  Robbie! 

EMOKv,  (aside.) 

See !  he  has  forgotten  us !  He  rises  from  his  chair — his  eves  are  turned 
upward— his  rijifht  hand  out-readies,  and  moves  with  the  clianjjes  of  his 
emotion.  Me  is  tearful — his  voice  trembles — his  roug'h  features  refine  and 
ennoble  in  tlie  j^low  of  lofty  IVcliiin!  What  bleiuled  admiration,  love,  pity, 
in  Ills  toiK's,  as  he  apostrophizes  his  favorite  bard! — what  pathos — what 
tenderness ! 

MALI' AKLIN. 

Anil  thou,  too,  iirt  near  me,  a  blessed  presence,  even  as  in  Anld  Lang 
Sync',  'fliou  art  to  me  as  my  verra  ain,  anil  thine  imaye  is  dear  to  me!  lien- 
tie  Robin  Hums!  sweetest  o'  singers  I — iiae  speckled  breast  ever  started  frae 
heather  with  iiiair  o'  music!  I^onlliest  o'  iialure's  iiobleiinjii — followiir  thy 
team  alaiiy  the  moiiiilain-side — dallviiiK  with  the  faerie  Music'.  Wha  would 
iia  s|)eak  a  fond  word  for  ye,  Robin!  tlioiiLfh  ye  are  where  foul  nor  fair 
speech  can  reach  ye  now!  Thou  iliilst  put  more  beaiitv  in  all  things  of 
beauty;  didst  add  a  soul  to  soii<;-,  and  point  with  light  llie  beamy  lances  of 
morning.  'I'here  is  not  a  stream  but  riiis  whimperin'  or  babblin'  o'  you. 
Ah,  thy  little  share-torn  daisy!  'twill  livi',  in  its  meek,  pathetic  beauty, 
when  many  o' the  ])r()uikr  llowers  o'  fame  liae  faded!  We're  aye  wi'  thee 
through  the  encliaiiteil  woodlands;  and  the  dales  aiul  dingles  echo  to  thy 
call,  while  we  'gae  fauliling  Cluileii's  woods  amang,  wi"  tlie  liiitvv-hite-locked 
lassie;  or  stray  where  hoar  Moiitgomi'rie  spre.iils  its  siiatle,  hopeful  amang 
the  birks  and  hawtiiorns  to  meet  wi'  llighlaiul  Marv.  There's  not  a  tender, 
true,  poetic  soul  but  loves  you,  Robin!  and  yet — and  yet!  *  *  *  *  Alas, 
Robbie!  that  ye  ever  knew  priik',  praise,  or  wluiskey!  Ma  piiir,  puir boy ! 
what  ane  did  tiiey  slay,  when  ye  sank  doon  untimely  i'  the  dust,  adding  ane 
more  name  to  the  mourntu'  record  o'  misliirtune !  What  heavenly  plumage 
was  plucked  into  tin-  mire,  when  the  demon  o'  sinfu'  passion  had  his  sport 
wi'thee!  What  wreaths  it  turned  to  niglit-shaile  ! — what  laurels  it  burned 
to  ashes  on  thy  low-laitl  brow,  O  my  suft'eriiig  son  of  song! 

—  From  the  Minister'' s  Fireside. 

"  He'll  liae  misfortunes  great  and  sma," 
But  aye  a  heart  aboon  them  a', 
He'll  be  a  credit  'till  u"*  a', 
We'll  a'  be  proud  o'  Robin." 

— BuKNS.     '' There  Was  a  Lad." 


BURNS  BEMEMBEHED. 


76 


•Jnv 


i'()Ii\'FiI)  in  cloudy  vapors  ^r.'iy, 
I'lic  n-appciirlnj;'  kliij;'  of  diiy. 
Now  strii<^^liii^  inakos  liis  wintry  way. 

To  wake  tin*  morn. 
When — blithest  bird  (»f  (dearest  lay! — 

Onr  Hums  was  l)orn. 

With  snowy  winds  al)ro:id  to  rav«\ 
Wild  natnre  piped  a  froli(?  stave, 
And  ronyh  and  hearty  welconi(>  ;;ave 

Her  favorite  l»oy. 
Who  shonld  misfortune's  storms  outbrave. 

Its  bolts  defy. 

The  babe  she  elasped  in  her  rude  arms, 

And  nursed  him,  with  hei*  smiles  and  storms, 

Moved  to  wild  raptures  and  alarms 

His  minstrel  soul. 
And  held  him,  by  her  frowns  and  charms. 

Jn  her  control. 

His  was  her  treasur)'. — her  time 
Of  fallino^  leaves,  and  frosty  rime  ; 
The  budding  season's  singing  i)rime. 

With  sunshine  rife; 
And  that  ••  true  pathos  and  sublime 

Of  human  life.'" 

But  liim  she  did  not  shield  from  woe; 
Teaching  his  tiery  heart  to  know 


I.    See  the  Epistle  to  Dr.  Blacklock  : 

"  To  make  a  liappy  (ircsidc  cliino 
For  weans  and  witc, 

That's  the  true  jjathos  anil  sublime 
Of  Human  life." 


76 


BUBKS  BEMEMBERED. 


Of  tears  the  Ntterest  overflow:— 

Yet  hence  tliere  came 

The  keener  sense,  tli(^  ••friendly  j^low. 

And  softer  flame.""' 

Hail  to  thee!  chief  of  Scottish  bards! 
And  flrst  amon<?  a  world's  reo^ards! 
Th}'^  music  wed  to  noble  words. 

Goes  the  world  o'er; 
'V\\y  pastoral  notes,  thj'  deep  he.".rt-chords, 

Sweeten  each  shore. 

We  love  each  song  to  nature  true, 
Like  d;'wn  and  sunset  to  the  view 
Fa!;."'';ir,  olden— ever  new. 

And  ever  sweet 
As  the  dear  daisy  in  the  dew, 

Meek  at  th,y  feet. 

From  '"burn"  and  '•'brae*'  thy  coining  brings 
Thoughts  of  all  bright  and  joyous  things ; — 
The  hawthorn  blooms,  the  merle  sings 

Aloud,  and — hark! 
Singing,  to  his  blue  heaven  upsprings 
The  morning  lark ! 

Alas !  that  o'er  a  harp  so  flne. 
That,  swept  with  ardor  so  divine, 
Could  make  the  lowly  virtues  shine 

Like  stars  on  high. 
Should  sound  at  Passion's  soiled  shrine 

So  witchinglv ! 


"The  poor  inhabitant  below 
Was  quick  to  k';.rn,  and  wise  to  know, 
And  keenly  felt  the  friendly  j;'low 
And  softer  lliinie." 

—  Thk  Baku's  liriTAPH. 


■h! 


n  URNS  REMEMBERED. 


77 


But  let  us  not.  in  rantinj:^  strain, 
Of  man  or  poet  liore  conji)l!iin  ; 
Ours  in  his  nobler  son^c:  the  gain, 

We  gladly  share : 
If  his  the  error,  his  the  pain, — 

T^et  ns  beware ! 

Alas  for  ill  I — yet  ean  we  soon 
Forget  the  charPi  of  "Bonnh'  Boon?-'' 
Nay!  and  while  Afton  winds  in  noon- 
Tide  solitude. 
'I'he  soul  must  bless  thy  eheorful  boon — 
Thy  melting  mood  I — 

Thy  poet-scorn  of  mean  and  low. 
Of  titled  fo<d.  and  glitrcriiig  show, 
'I'jjy  power  to  feel  "'the  friendly  glow. 

And  softer  tlame  t" — 
Uriknown  are  tliey  who  do  not  know 

Tfnj  magic  nam(» ! 

O  mus!c-:spirit  I   "•child  of  air!"" 

What  generous  heart  but  tiiou  art  thei'c ! 

What  chord,  from  rapture  to  despair. 

Hut  thou  didst  move! 
Yet  on  thy  front  dost  chietly  wear — 

Fheedom.  AM)  Love! 


AN     AKTKKTH(3UaMT. 

I  ^    IJECOKD  crude  of  adnnration  due; 

Not  such  as  I  had  writ  in  later  days. 

For  sorrow.  de<>per  than  sincerest  praise. 
Stirs  at  his  name.     ^'cs.  tbcr*-  vven>  virtues,  true 
10 


78 


AN  AFTERTHOUGHT. 


And  nohlo  in  liis  ii;itiiiv — not  u  fo^'. 

With  <;('niiis.  fcivid  as  a  torrid  noon. 
Lucid,  as  arc  tlic  bvool<s  tlic  forest  tln()M<^li. 

And  luniinon.s,  as  wlicn  tlic  globed  lull  moon 
O'er  the  dark  hill-top  rises  into  view. 
Yet  hud  the  wise  in  word,  in  heart  been  wise, 

No  wonderinji;  world  had  wept  his  fall  so  soon  : 
The  soul  that  raiscnl  the  cotta<^e  to  the  skies. 

And  breathed  the  fi-a<:;rant  si<;^hs  of  ''  Thnniie  Dooii^"' 
SVionld  in  its  way  liavc  met  a  kinder  fate. 
And  swept  with  spotless  wing  the  shining  gate. 


/^ 


\ 


A    DREAIVI    OK    HKAVEN. 


©TJEAMIXG,  I  i)asis(>(l  the  »;lltt('riiig  doino.  whose  blue 
Melted  bcliiiid.  Jiiid  silent  tliroiio-h  the  gate 
("ailed  Everlastin»»";  when  ii|m>ii  my  view 
The  splendors  broke  of   an  Inunortal  State: 
Miiie  ey<'s  took  blindness  from  th'  nnwontcd  f^low 
That  fell  iijton  them  snddeidy;   till,  slow, 
And  by  (le<;r<'es,  1  bore  the  pomp  of  light — • 
Tlie  iieavenl}-  wonder  of  retiu'ning  sight  I 

H«>antiful.  as  the  bowers  of  tii.it  green  <'arth 

^^  her«>  ,11  an  to  his  existeiK-e  lirst  awoke. 

Was  fh«'  unfolding  scene — this  maivelouH  birth 

Of  loveliness  I     As  at  a  magic  stroke 

Of  some  enchanter,  did  the  landscape  dawjj 

To  vision;  witli  familiar  siiapes.  npdrawn — 

The  origlit'ning  phantom-  of  earth's  blooming  things, 

'I'hat  live  anew  by  (dear  ethcical  springs. 


Swept  round  by  deep  transparency  of  wall, 
Itadiaiit  as  many-colored  evening  sk}% 
Ko^e  Light's  sii|)reme,  nnijestic  capitol. 
And  Love's  resplendent  prinei|>ality  : 


I 


.1 
"i 


!  I 


ill 


1 1 
'•I 


80 


A  DUE  AM  OF  HEAVEN. 


Their  fields  dispreml,  illimitable,  free, 

As  siin-illiimiiied  plains  ot  Italy. 

Where  youthful  Sprin*^  dwelt  in  unwaning  prime, 

And  airs-  mellilhioiis  breathed  a  softer  clime. 

Beyond  the  wall  stretch'd  this  divine  champaign, 
Fading  purpurea  1  from  the  gazer's  eye. 
As  he  some  station  eminent  might  gain, 
The  many-featured  landsca])e  to  descry; 
And  o'er  it  hung  a  cope  of  amj)k'St  mould. 
With  mingled  blue,  and  trembling  haze  of  gold, 
Through  which  a  swe<'t]y-t('mi)ered  light  did  fall, 
Suflusing  and  illuminating  all. 

The  river's  fullness  from  its  still  retreats 
Sent  down  its  crystal,  wheri;  the  asphodel 
Steals  secret  glances,  and  (exhales  its  sweets; 
And  came,  till  sparkling  wall  and  turret  fell 
In  splendid  shadow;  onward,  then,  to  stray. 
Upon  its  musical,  life-giving  way. 
Wooing  the  fadeless  amaranth  to  spring, 
And  swept  by  many  a  bird's  resplendent  wing. 

'Mid-view  arose  the  City's  silvery  spires, 

And  the  white  Temi)le,  tiery-pinnacled  : 

The  high  Jnettable  Light  theie  veiled  His  lires. 

Obscuring  glories  rapturously  beheld. 

Dazzling  the  gold-wing'd  ones  who  ''Holy!''  crj'. 

Whose  mitigated  splendors  till  the  eye 

With  radiant  excess : — there  was  no  need 

Of  the  sun's  chariot,  and  his  golden  steed. 

O  awful  mount!  magnilic,  dread  abode! 
O'erlooking.  universal  sentinel! 
Thy  pure  brow  luminous  with  th'  outshining  God, 
Who  oute  in  awful  solitude  did  dwell! 


A  DREAM  OF  HEAVEN. 


81 


I  saw  thy  steeps  eiiswathed  with  sheeny  cloud, 
Through  which  anon  clear  points  of  ruby  showed; 
While,  far  below,  thou  uiight'st  discerned  be 
In  bright  reflection  on  the  glassy  sea. 

Then,  trembling  from  its  base,  uprose  a  sound — 
A  deep  melodious  thunder — like  the  swell 
Of  some  cathedral  organ,  which  hath  drowned 
Soft  voices  antheming, — that  rose  and  fell; 
Tempestuous  rapture  mounting  like  the  sea. 
Flooding  all  shores  of  sense  with  harmony; 
Then,  dying  in  sweet  wavelets  on  the  ear, 
With  many  a  minor  cadence,  silver  clear. 

Then  woke  the  central  host  in  praiseful  choir. 
Who  came  by  death's  black  valley — up,  and  out 
From  troublous  deeps  below;  and  mounted  higher 
Than  sliines  the  morning  star.     There  never  doubt, 
And  never  fear  can  reach  tliem  :  priests  to  (Jod, 
They  bear  the  hallowed  seal  of  martyr-blood; 
And  robed  in  snowy  dress,  with  faces  bright, 
They  praise  Ilim  in  His  temple,  day  and  night. 

All  things  1  saw  in  happiest  concord  move. 
And  Duty  wove  a  tlowery  band  of  Law; 
"  Familiar  acts  gr(;w  beautifnl  through  Love,"' 
As  from  the  sun  do  shards  a  lustre  draw  : 
There  linest  feeling,  and  divinest  thought. 
From  fnll  harmonious  speech  are  hindered  not; 
And  god-like  speech  hath  god-like  action,  too, — 
Not  there  they  nobly  tliink,  and  meanly  do. 

If  tears  were  there,  they  must  hv.  happy  t<'ars. 
For  [Sorrow's  bitter  fountains  had  rim  (h-y  ; 
And,  dindy  o'er  them,  no  regret  appears, 
Like  the  black  cloud  tliat  mars  a  i)erfect  sky ; 

I.    Shelley.     Prometheus  Unbound,  Act  IV. 


"1 


82 


A  DREAM  OF  HEAVEN. 


No  liiin<5ry  liefirt-ptiiiis  eoine.  nor  discontent 
Afflicts  th(i  soiil  s(M-ene  juul  Innocent; 
And  tlicy  wlio  Iul)or  lonjjj,  and  ]ii<5h  !is|)ire, 
Are  still  rcfn^slied,  nor  (!ver  faint  nor  tire. 

Nothing  was  liated,  save  tlie  leper — 8inl 
And  he  came  not  to  trouble,  as  before, 
In  lower  Eden  :  All  who  entered  in 
The  spotless  mien  ot  saint  or  seraph  wore, 
And  ^ave  no  taint  to  aught  of  loV(diness 
Or  purity.     'I'liere  were  the  fond  caress, 
The  symi)athetic  look,  to  comfort  used. 
And  love,  confiding,  nevermore  al)used. 

No  season's  interchange,  no  waning  year, 
Moving  the  heart  to  sadness,  tlierc  were  found; 
No  crisped  hiaves.  autumnal,  brown  and  sere. 
Nor  polar  airs,  in  all  that  happy  round; 
But  llclds  forever  vernal,  constant  skies. 
Haunted  by  spring-like  hues  and  symphonies; 
Wlu'ie  vanished  l)eams  of  youth— our  hopcri,  in  train 
With  radiant  fancies — reai)i)ear  again. 

No  hoary  sexton  cleaves  his  burial  sod 

On  holy  hillside,  or  in  restful  vale; 

No  siditary  beadsman  stalks  abroad. 

'Mid  !)rooding  thoughts,  and  nutonlit  shadows  pale; 

No  gloomy  face,  nor  melancholy  mien. 

Nor  |)(Mnp  of  woe,  deformed  that  [)erfe(;t  scene; 

No  wailing  winds,  but  chiming  airs,  that  smite 

The  heart  with  an  electrical  delight. 

There  gamlxdM.  in  perpetual  infancy. 
'I'he  "eternal  child"' — its  exev-bloonung  fai.'c. 
Cherubic.  wr(>athcd  with  smih's  that  sweetest  l»« 
To  her  who  putteth  in  his  nesting  place. 


4- 


A  DEE  AM  OF  HEAVEN. 


88 


At  ovc.  lior  <>,'ifli('st  1)oi-ii :  Mh'  opciiiiijjj  llowcr 
Of  iiiiiidciiliood.  .111(1  iii;uiiHt()(r>  prime  of  power 
Were  there — divorced  from  Wiistiiii;.  sordid  cares.— 
AjuI  that  ripe  heauty  fojiiid  with  silver  hairs. 

It  seemeij  tint  some  elysiaii  holiday 
Had  h'ft  this  j^ate  mi^iiarded  at  the  east. 
Where  throiii^h  the  wall  I  made  unhallowed  way. 
1M3'  heart  liad  tremulous  l)eatiii<i,'s.  that  Increased 
As  I  approached  that  luminous  faii(\  wluMice  rare 
Melodious  tlirohhiiii;-s  lloo(h'd  all  the  air; 
And  saw  such  heini^s  momently  appear 
As  it  seemed  profanation  to  be  near. 

I  stood  alone,  unvvelcomed  and  unseen. 
Save  by  the  Fniversal  Ey<'.  that  sees 
Amid  our  ii;uilty  darkness: — smit  with  keen 
Mysterious  pain.  T  felt  but  ill  at  ease; — 
I  stood  estran<4ed  fi'om  every  hoi}'  haunt. 
Beariui?  a  nameless  dread — ''a  hidden  want" — 
A  listless  sadness,  as  of  one  would  hear 
The  step  of  her  who  never  can  ai)pear. 

Thus,  while  I  stood  apart,  came  <jjently  near. 
(Iina<^e.  unspeakable,  of  lii^'ht  and  >^rac'(;I) 
A  seraph,  chantin<5  with  a  voiee  as  ch^ir 
As  bird  of  purest  note  in  shadiest  jihwe: 
rnconscious  seemed  she  of  each  charm  that  wooed 
Her  there,  so  rapt  in  her  beatitude  ; 
And  as  lier  face  turned  toward  me,  anj^el-fair, 
I  started  at  the  rapture  shinin<»;  there! 

She  saw  me,  wonderiiii;'.  with  astonisliM  mien. 
Where  darken'd  soon  the  shadow  of  dismay; 
Then,  swift  as  maid  who  hath  tlu^  serjx'ut  seen. 
As  the  scared  antelope,  slie  lied  away  : 


f     I 


j 


I  ! 


|ii.'        I 


!    ii 


■  1 


84 


A  DEE  AM  OF  HEAVEN. 


■     : 


I  felt  her  horror:  darkeiKMl  all  around — 
Shadows  that  fell  on  dlscnchantod  "ground  ; 
While  a  low,  warning  voi(;e  possess'd  my  ^'JH": 
'"Haste  from  this  holy  place !     What  dost  thou  here?" 

Then  murmurs  grew  from  every  joyous  shade, 
And  waxing  notes  of  wrath  and  dis(!ontent, 
With  hollow  soTuids  that  make  the  heart  afraid : 
I  looked  hehind,  and  saw  that  wliere  I  went 
My  touch  had  dinged  and  blackeuM,  heaving  blight, 
Like  that  on  gardens  after  frosty  night 
In  red  Octobei', — such  a  lothesome  blot 
On  that  celestial  beauty  I  had  bronglit. 

Then  from  the  brow  of  that  dread  mount,  supreme. 
Rolled  clouds,  that  darted  angry,  forked  tires. 
While  music  ceased  along  the  living  stream  ; — 
Ceased  Heaven's  deep  organ,  and  its  sweetest  lyres 
Sent  down  no  more  melodions  argosies. 
Full-freighted,  to  the  ear:  Then  heard  I  rise, 
When  all  these  voices  suddenly  were  mute, 
A  gathering  sound  of  vengeance  and  pursuit. 

Then  turned  I.  startled  from  my  numb  despair. 
And  a  wild  nameless  fear  my  feet  impelled ; 
For,  issuing  from  the  T(;mple's  wrathful  glare. 
The  mailed  angelic  legions  I  beheld : 
I  deemed  their  lightnings  stream'd  around  my  head, 
And  smote  me,  while  to  the  abyss  I  fled, 
A  blinded  wretch,  dragging  with  me  a  yoke 
That  plunged  me  downward! — falling,  I  awoke! 


l'p:nvoy 


The  light  enriches  not  the  wounded  eye, 

Nor  beauty's  charm  invites  th'  imbruted  mind; 


;; 


A  DREAM  OF  HEAVEN. 


8fi 


The  inoviDj::  sweets  of  lI(!aveii-l)on]  melody 
Alone  through  cells  of  hearts  harmonious  wind : 
Not  all  the  bloom  of  Paradise  could  i)lea8e 
The  leprous  soul,  uncleansed  of  its  disease; 
Then,  since  Thy  joy  dwells  onl}'^  with  the  ^ood, 
O  cleanse  me,  Jesu,  with  Thy  soverei<^n  hlood ! 


s^> 


11 


THK    PROIMIKT. 


(HE  niountaiirs  form  is  lifted  Iii^li, 
Against  tho  Ji/,iir»>  of  tlio  slvy; 
And  far  below  appears  iii  view 
The  sea,  with  waves  of  darker  blue. 

But  what  triuiuphaut  niultitiide 
Once  on  this  llowery  mountain  stood?' 
What  acclamations,  loud  and  long. 
Arose  from  an  assembled  throng? 

A  Prophet  of  the  Lord  stood  there, 
With  form  erect,  and  forehead  bare. 
And  snowy  crown,  more  radiant  white. 
Transfigured  by  the  golden  light. 

'Tis  he,  by  Cherith's  rocky  bed 
Whom  late  the  clamorous  ravens  fed  f 
Keen-eyed,  unshorn,  and  rude  of  dress,' — 
Stern  herald,  from  the  wilderness! 

1.  "  Send  and  fjathcr  to  nie  all  Israel  unto  Mount  Carmcl,  and  the  proph- 
ets of  Baal,  four  hundred  and  fifty." — /  A'/mrs,  /S:  iq, 

2.  "  He  went  and  dwelt  by  the  brook  Cherith,  that  is  before  Jordan.     And 
the  ravens  brouji^ht  him  bread  and  tiesh." — /  Kiiiffs,  ij:  j,  6. 

3.  "He  was  an  hairy  man,  and  jjirt  with  a  fi^irdle  of  leather  about  his 
loins,  and  he  said,    '  It  is  Elijah  the  Tishbite.'  " — 2  Kings,  i:  8. 


THE  PROPHET. 


87 


Feiirless  ho  stood,  without  (llsiiuiy, 
Surrounded  hy  that  straiip^  array; 
For  vv<dl  tho  godless  h'<^ions  knew 
That  they  were  false,  and  he  was  true. 

At  HaaPs  slirhje  lliey  falsely  call, — 

No  sacrillelal  lire  shall  fall, 

Thouj^h  streaming  wounds,  and  frantle  cries, 

Insult  the  calm  and  sih'iit  skies.' 

But  wlien  the  l*roph(»t"s  hour  has  conje, 
Ills  Lortl  shall  not  he  deaf  aiul  diunh; 
But  rocks  unhewn,  on  <^rassy  sod, 
Shall  hrlghtcn  with  the  lire  of  God." 

And  soon  upon  the  evenin*?  air 
Was  heard  the  Prophet's  voice  in  prayer: 
"  O  Lord  !  thy  fount  of  tire  unseal ! 
As  Thou  art  God,  Thyself  reveal !''' 

Ah,  with  what  ardor  rose,  intcuise, 

That  supplicatin<5  ehxpience. 

Till  winj^'d  fi'oin  lleavon,  the  sheeted  flame — 

The  sui)i>lianfs  liery  answer  came  !* 

Lo!  round  the  stones  the  Prophet  laid. 
The  searchinj^  glow  devouring  played; 
And  sounding,  said  in  every  ear. — 
••  Beware  of  sin,  for  God  is  here!" 


1.  "And  they  crietl  ;ik)ud,  and  cut  tin.  insclves  with  knives  and  lancets, 
till  the  blood  pushed  out  upon  them  ;  . .  .there  was  neither  voice,  nor  any  to 
answer,  nor  any  that  ret^ariled.'" — /  h'i'>i<fs,  rS:  28,  2q. 

2.  "  And  Elijah  took  twelve  stones.  ...and.... built  an  altar,  in  the  name 
of  the  Lord." — /  Kings,  iS:  31,  jj. 

3.  "The  God  that  answereth  hy  lire,  let  him  be  (Jotl." — r  Kings,  iS:  24. 

4.  "  Then  the  fire  of  the  Lord  fell,  and  consumed  the  burnt  sacrifice,  and 
the  wood,  and  the  stones,  and   licked  up  the  water  that  was  in  the  trench." 

— /  Kings,  /S:  3S. 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


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t'°  IM    IIIII2  2 
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1.8 


1.25      1.4      1.6 

4 6"     

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>> 


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Photographic 

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Corporation 


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23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(716)  872-4503 


y. 


THE  PROPHET. 


I  i 


Th'  astonied  people,  in  amaze, 

Shrink  from  tlie  preternatural  blaze, 

And  falling  on  tlieir  faces,  cry, — 

"The  Lord  is  God!— the  Lord  most  IIigh!"> 

Ah,  vainly  had  the  men  of  pride 
The  living  God  so  long  defied ! 
On  stubborn  necks  the  sword  He  drew. 
And  priest  and  idol  perished  too.' 

'J'hus,  when  a  giant  Wrong  is  grown. 
And  Evil  builds  itself  a  throne ; 
When,  *'  Wlio  is  God  V"  tlie  proud  ones  say, 
••'That  we  sliould  worship  or  obey!" 


Then  from  His  ancient  scut  in  Heaven 
The  word  goes  forth — the  sign  is  given : 
''The  Lord  is  God!'"  tlie  people  cry; 
And  Kiglit  sliall  live,  and  Wrong  sliall  die. 

O  in  tliJit  long-desired  day 
For  whicli  tlie  fuitliful  strive  and  pray. 
May  we  be  found  with  those  wiio  (stand 
Witli  God,  and  truth,  and  native  land! 

In  every  age,  and  everywliere, 
The  burtlicn  of  tlie  Propliet's  prayer — 
Thougli  not  of  tire,  or  vengeful  sword — 
Sliall  win  an  answer  from  the  Lord. 


1.  "And  wlicn  all  tlii;  pconle  saw  it,  they  fell  on  their  faces;  and  they 
said,  'The  Lord,  He  is  the  God ;  the  Lord,  He  is  the  God.'  " — /  King's,  iS:jq. 

2.  "And  Elijah  said  unto  them,  '  Take  the  prophets  of  Baal;  let  not  one 
of  them  escape.'  And  they  took  them  :  Anil  Elijah  brouj^fht  them  down  to 
the  brook  Kishon,  and  slew  them  there."—/  Kin^s,  /S:  ^. 


DESTINY. 


I. 

Shut  not  thy  merciful  cars  to  our  cry.— Collect. 


|HEN  what  were  Hell? — The  stain  of  sin  inrtxed, 
Outwashen  never;  angel.  Love,  sliiit  out. 
Anil  the  door  l)olte(l  with  a  hateful  doubt; 
Tlie  pang  of  thought,  with  no  sweet  nulling  mixed ; 
Tonnenting  Recollection,  serpent  red^ 

Lifting  its  burning  front  out  of  the  sea 
That  covers  all  the  past !  O  save  f  ron»  um? 
Tlie  memory  of  a  morning  promise,  tlead 
Forever!  It  were  Hell — to  have  the  frown. 

And  not  the  smile  of  God! — 'twere  misery 
My  simple,  unblessed  self  to  ever  be — 
To  have  the  thorn  and  nightshade  for  my  crown- 
To  add  unto  my  sin — Eternity ! 


ID 


And  'neath  its  weight  be  sinking  lower  down. 

II. 

HO  can  repair  anew  the  fatal  breaeli.' 
When  our  last  hope  is  shatt«'rM  at  the  grave. — 
When  lie  is  scorned,  who  did  our  souls  beseeeh. 
And  hung  in  blood  oar  ruined  life  to  save? 


I.    Ucb.^6:  \-6^ 


i  I 


90 


DESTINY, 


What  shall  abate  the  ranktiess  of  the  rue? 

Or  v/ho  the  bitter  wormwood  moderate? 

Alas  I  alas !  who  did  ourselves  undo. 

And  cannot  sweeten  our  envenom'd  state 
With  one  pure  tear  of  penitential  grief, 

Or  one  relenting  throe,  however  brief! 

How  may  we  bide  the  wrathful  thunderstroke 

Of  him  whose  Son  we  spurn'd  and  ill-entreated? 
How,  when  His  love  has  long  and  vainly  burned, 

Shall  from  His  breath  the  ireful  tiame  be  heated ! 


.©UT  can  it 
A^   That  am 


III. 

be,  O  Lover  of  mankind ! 
any  soul  must  dwell  where  Love  is  not- 
Dead  to  itself — in  prison  blank  and  blind — 
Chain'd  to  a  curs'd  and  miserable  lot? 

Ah,  that  this  might  not  be!— that  hearts  so  sore- 
So  wretched — might  obtain  their  hopes  renevv'd. 
And  Darkness  boast  such  conquest  nevermore ! 
Ah.  that  from  Evil,  to  the  far-off  Good, 

Through  woes  uiniumber'd.  and  long  penal  years. 
The  soul — eased  of  eternal  doom  and  blight — 
Might  come,  at  last !  and  that^  it  thought  not  gain, 
Be  clearly  seen — a  slowly-dawning  light — 

Pursued— desired — obtained,  with  rapturous  te.ars. 

And  Heaven  be  greeted  with  a  new-born  strain ! 

4.  IV. 

*f*F  an  almighty  One  demanded  Hell 

•f*       1"  sustain  the  balance  of  a  universe — 

The  awful  concert,  the  unending  curse, 

With  the  diviner  halleluia's  swell — 
And  there,  perforce,  some  must  forever  dwell ! — 

Might  I  with  lifted  accents  glorify 

The  will  of  my  ordaining  Deity, 


DESTINY. 


M 


In  that  abode  of  darkness  terrible? 

From  that  black  vastness  mi^ht  I.  rising,  cling 

To  the  white  skirt  of  light  that  sweeps  the  stars— 
The  garment-glory  my  Anointed  wears — 
And  with  a  tire-tongne.  sweetly  painfid.  sing? 

But  ah,  the  Prince  of  Universal  Grace 
Wishes  not  any  in  a  hopeless  case  ! 

i    j»0 !  from  the  lowest  deep  of  that  extreme 

-"^    And  fearful  region  would  my  voice  arise, 
Ambitious  of  supernal  melodies! — 
And.  as  a  bird's  heart  pants  for  the  tirst  gleam 

Of  the  young  dayspring,  when  from  the  green  spray — 
Fresh,  dewy  covert! — rising,  it  may  spring, 
Bathing  in  the  new  light  each  happy  wing, 
And  ever  singing,  singing,  soar  away!' — 

!So,  sitting  in  God's  shadow'd  place,  below. 

Awhile — by  some  strange  oversight? — my  soul 

Should  not  from  the  angelic  Lo:  e  be  lost ; 

But.  when  the  outward-opening  gate  might  throw 

A  beam  from  her  lov'd  Paradise,  would  roll 

Her  anthem,  greeting  the  harmonious  host! 


Dante,  Pariidiso;  Canto  xxiii,  1—9. 


> 


1  T 


I  I 


PRAISE. 

PRAISE  ye  the  Lord !   for  wlio  but  He 
Whose  face  no  niortul  eye  can  see — 
On  wlioni  His  angels  scarce  can  gaze — 
Is  worth  J'  of  adoring  praise? 

His  light  and  pow(;r  extend  afar. 
From  sun  to  sun.  and  star  to  star. 
Through  spaces  wing  hatli  never  crossed. 
And  where  our  wandering  tlioughts  are  lost. 

His  wisdom  framed  the  grand  design, 
And  gave  eacli  glowing  orb  to  shine. 
And  in  their  grand  harmonious  ways 
To  move  in  order  to  His  praise. 

Praise  ye  the  Lord !  for  it  was  He 
Who  saved  our  lost  Humanity  I 
Above  all  power  of  tongue  or  pen, 
His  wondrous  love  to  dying  men ! 

Let  every  creature  that  hath  breath 
Sing  to  the  Lord  of  life  and  death ; 
And  let  the  shining  choirs  on  high, 
Their  rapturous  hosannas  cry ! 

In  Him  the  virtues  all  reside. 

By  Him  is  every  good  supplied : 

Then  praise  the  Lord — with  gladness  praise ! 

Let  all  on  earth  the  anthem  raise ! 


je:rusaive:m. 


"  When  He  beheld  the  City  He  wept  over  it." 


CITY  of  my  love — Jerusalem ! 
Thou  sittest  as  a  queen,  with  diadem 
And  royal  mantle  on : 
O  city  of  my  heart — I  see  thy  glory  gone ! 

0  city  of  mj'  love — Jerusalem ! 

1  mourn  for  thee,  and  worship's  richest  gem 

Of  snowy  stone : 
I  see  the  foe  rush  in,  and  thou  art  overthrown ! 

0  city  of  mj'^  love — Jerusalem ! 

1  mourn  for  thee,  but  more  I  mourn  for  them — 

Thy  stubborn  sons,  self-willed: 
1  see  their  hate  return — their  awful  doom  fulfilled ! 

0  city  of  my  love— Jerusalem ! 

1  came  to  save — I  came  not  to  condemn ; 

To  guard  and  gather  thee, 
As  bird  her  brood,  1  came, — but  ye  would  none  of  Me ! 

O  city  of  ni}-^  love— Jerusalem ! 
ITadst  thou  but  known  the  things  reveale«l  to  them 
12 


M 


JERUSALEM. 


I 


, 

\ 

M 

\ 

it 

Whose  hearts  are  timely  wise ; 
But  nmn  thej'  must  be  hid  forever  from  tliine  eyes! 

0  city  of  my  love — Jerusalem  ! 

1  see  thee  sit  without  thy  diadem, 

Sunk  from  thy  queenly  state ! — 
Behold  thy  house  is  left  unto  thee  desolate! 


The  flame  mounts  high  on  Zion's  wall. 

The  scornful  foe  is  come ; 
Her  self-devoted  children  fall 

Beneath  the  holy  dome ! 

Hark !  hear  the  brazen  portals  clang ! 

The  Koman  helm  gleams  high : — 
Just  now  the  sword  to  slaughter  sprang, 

And  bleeding  victims  die ! 

Fast  flows  the  rising  purple  tide, 
Fast  grows  thy  glory  dim ; — 

Ah,  there  was  One  ye  crucified^ 
If  ye  remember  Him ! 

The  moss  creeps  on  the  crumbling  dome. 
The  streets  are  old  and  worn ; 

And  from  their  haunted,  holy  home, 
The  exiled  children  mourn. 

Yet,  O  recall  thy  people,  Lord ! — 

Thy  ancient  sons  restore ! 
And  let  the  darkness,  most  abhorred, 

Benight  their  eyes  no  more ! 


SNOW     IN    OCXOIBKR.' 

ffj  SCAKLET-VESTKD  QUEEN!   'twas  yesterday 
(^^    I  saw  th(M'  <i;Iori(ms  'inong  thy  woods  and  hills, 
And  heard  the  rustle  of  uiituinnal  leaves; 
But,  lo !  from  Cuuiberland's  blue  hills  and  shores, 
And  yon  bright  Islets,  set  as  if  to  guard 
The  eoast  beyond  them  from  the  tumbling  Bay,* 
And  where  swol'n  Avon  lifts  his  turbid  waves' 
Upon  the  sunny  beach  of  Summerville,^ 
The  snow  gleams  thro'  this  chilly  morning  air, 
New  faU'n,  as  an  angel's  plumage  white; 
Or  like  that  throne  of  spotless  majesty 
Keared  in  the  heavens. 

Soft  speaks  the  wooing  sun. 
And  earth  makes  answer  with  a  smiling  light. 
Glad  that  an  army  of  contending  clouds 
Hare  been  dispersed  b}'  his  triumphant  beams, 


1.  Seen  on  the  "Five  Islands,"  ofT  the  Cumberland  shore,  near  Parrs- 
boro,  Nova  Scotia. 

2,  More  properly  Basin  of  Minus.    The  Bay  lies  outside  and  beyond  the 
bluft'  of  Blomidon. 

3.     "  Far  o'er  the  lea  the  breathiiif^  cattle  low 
And  the  full  Avon  lifts  the  darkened  wave." 

— CllATTERTON. 

4.    A  port  in  Hants  County,  just  across  the  river  trom  us. 


SNOW  IN  OCTOBER. 


That  have  more  power  to  dn/zlo  than  to  warm. 
He  reigns  all  radiant  through  his  wclkin-hoine. 
Levels  his  spears  at  crouching  JUoniidon, 
And  levels  all  his  golden  arrows,  too, 
To  wake  the  five  fair  torins  that  slumbering  lie. 
Charmed  'mid  the  waters. 

Darkens  and  withdraws 
The  beamy  god  whose  race  was  well  begun  : 
Eclipsed  and  shadowy,  I  behold  them  still 
Afar  in  Minas,  rising  from  the  tide, 
All  bridal-tired — daughters  of  the  sea ; 
Not  as  erst,  in  the  purple  mellowing  liglit 
That  flashed  from  flowery  Summer  as  slie  passed. 
Nor  garmented  in  Spring's  reviving  green; 
But  drest  in  brcde  of  silvery  woven  snow, 
Brought  by  the  sprite  that  skims  tiie  Norland  hiils. 
Hid  in  the  greyness  of  a  8ol)er  cloud. 

Ah,  soon  the  glistening  glory  shall  appear 

In  billowy  ridges  by  the  fenced  rtelds; 

And  the  dark  lirs,  like  Parian  pyramids. 

Shall  shoulder  their  white  masses  thro'  the  woods. 

The  pines  and  larches  wail  amid  the  cold. 

The  birch  emboss  her  silver  coat  with  ice, 

The  gaunt  elm  shout,  and  wrestle  with  tlie  wind; 

For  where  the  Indian  Summer  lingered  long. 

With  the  clear  essence  of  distilled  light. 

And  sweet'ning  breath  that  sighing  nature  gives 

Where  falling  leaves  are  scatter'd,  lying  hid 

In  wither'd  heaps  beneatli  the  fleec}'  drifts, 

Of  forest  spoils  the  beechen  shrub  alone 

Holds  fast  its  rustling  leaves  of  paly  gold. 

Ah,  Muse !  and  must  we  seek  a  shade  to-day. 
No  longer  vernal?    Yet  some  painted  sprays 


SNO  W  IN  OCTOBEB* 


97 


Hang  out  brave  bannerR  In  our  wontPtl  grove : 
Tlilther  will  we  betake  ourselves,  alone, 
And  list  the  nuirmur  of  tlie  swelling  stream. 
And  feel  the  rush  of  tlie  tierce,  winged  wind. 
Dipping  our  urn  in  frosted  Jlippocrene. 
But,  O  ye  summer  spirits,  drinking  dew. 
And  mounting  on  the  wings  of  butterflies, 
Fly  these  cold  springs,  that  gurgle  a  complaint! 
This  is  no  hour  when  ye  may  move  abroad. 
The  birds  that  charm'd  the  air  of  summer-time. 
Have  left  their  nests  'ndd  the  forsaken  Ixjughs. — 
And  ye  must  go:  but  we.  ()  Muse,  will  >*tay, 
And  on  the  «.'risped  and  frosty  leaves  sit  down. 
And  strike  our  wintry  harp  in  memory 
Of  Summer,  ever  beautiful,  but  gone! 

Now,  on  oui  reach  of  Avon's  nmrky  tide. 
The  snow  descends  from  clouds  tumultuous  piled 
Against  the  sun;  the  sparkling  shreds  of  down 
Are  glimmering  fast ;  and.  far  as  eye  can  reach — 
While  I  stand  gazing — do  the  Isles  beyond, 
And  the  dark-rolling  waters  of  tlu;  Hay, 
Become  obscure;  while,  dim,  tlie  whitening  fields. 
The  near-hand  farm-house,  and  the  orchard  tiees 
Show  indistinctly  thro'  the  falling  veil. 


Winter  with  all  his  storms  will  soon  be  here 
To  whistle  at  our  doors  :  his  wildest  blasts 
Shall  howl,  from  piny  prisons  of  the  north 
Loosen'd,  to  wanton  round  our  guarded  homes, 
Like  wolves,  enraged  they  may  not  enter  there ; 
Hushing  our  happy  streams  with  stifling  frost. 
And  choking  leaves,  and  wreaths  of  smothering  snow. 
But  let  him  come !  I  love  that  awful  roar— 
The  anger  of  disturbed  elements ; 


1 


08 


SNO  W  IN  OCTOBER. 


Ami  Xuturo  sootlios  me  with  lior  Imlst'rons  play. 

TIk;  witiiiti  that  swcop  the;  iiilln,  Hwatliiii^  thuin  ruund 

With  sifted  h(m|i.s  that  ^littor  hi  i\\v  huh, 

After  tlie  roinphig  juyoiis  night  is  past 

On  wings  of  fnry ;— ay,  tlie  wliooping  winds 

Tiiat  linnt  out  E(;ho,  sleeping  in  lier  cave, 

VVitli  ghostly  wliips  iasli  down  tlio  foaiuy  sua, 

Or  mingle  sleet  and  surf  along  the  sliore, — 

Walie  a  responsive  rapture  in  my  breast! 


^::| 


1  1 


Then  mount  your  cloudy  cliariots.  O  ye  winds! 
Unrein  j'our  surial  steeds,  and  sweep  along! 
iSlirieiv  in  tlie  crevices  and  deeps  of  eartli, 
Plunge  thro'  the  forests,  and,  with  whooping  cries, 
Pull  down  the  groaning  inonarchs  of  the  waste. 
And  crash  them  lieadlong  'mong  the  creaking  trees; 
Then,  distant  rage,  as  if  some  spirit  pursued 
Swept  through  the  shelter  of  tlie  shady  vales, 
Alone,  deep-mourning;  while,  attentive,  awed, 
Mortals  stand  listening,  if  they  may  discern 
The  meaning  of  the  mystic  Voice  tliey  hear ! 

Voice  of  Jehovah !  Thou  art  speaking  still. 

In  tones  of  ancient  majesty,  to  man ! 

In  rusliing  blasts  1  hear  Thee,  and  thy  voice 

Sounds  from  the  rolling  wheels  of  cloud,  in  thunder! 

1  hear  Thee  in  the  scented  sighs  of  summer, 

And  in  these  hoarsely-wailing  winds  that  come. 

And  grow  tempestuous  about  our  doors. 

When  starlessly  the  Autumn  night  descends: 

But  still  moiv  clearly  thou  art  heard  within, — 

A  thrilling  Voice,  and  near  akin  to  silence, 

With  sweet  reproof,  Devotion's  minister. 

VVe  hear,  and  bow  before  Thee,  while  the  pines 

Sway  on  the  hills  beyond,  where  Thou  art  treading: 


SNOW  IN  OCTOBER. 


99 


We,  in  our  cottage,  by  the  evening  fire, 
With  reverence  name  Thee;  and  our  ^rey-hah'M  slre- 
The  patriarch  of  onr  jjroup— puts  np  a  prayer: 
With  rising  liynniH  we  laud  Thy  holy  Name; 
Ulent  with  the  des(>ant  of  the  stormy  wind, 
Perchance  our  evensong  ascends  to  Thee, 
Accepted  in  Thy  high  abode  of  praise. 


/" 


w 


m 


ON    ISIvKSBORO. 

t  — 

•f'  SIT  by  the  sea,  this  evening, 
y     On  this  isle's  encliantecl  shore, 
And  I  list  to  the  voice  that  liath  charmed  me 
In  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

And  still  the  spell  comes  o'er  me. 

As  the  lisping  ripples  creep ; 
For  I  hear  the  tongue  of  Ocean — 

The  lips  of  the  mighty  Deep ! 

Beyond  the  golden  waters 

I  see  the  sun  go  down ; 
And  the  purple  hills  are  dreaming 

Afar  over  Camden  town. 

And  the  white  sails  that  are  stealing 

Adown  the  quiet  Bay, 
To  the  haunted  shores,  I  see  not. 

Are  bearing  my  thoughts  away- 

For  Ariel  glideth  near  me. 
And  a  new  Miranda's  face' 


I.    My  mind  was  then  filled  with  images  of  "  The  Tempest,"  which  1  had 
just  been  re-reading. 


ON  ISLE  SB  ORG. 


101 


Ilatli   made  u  traiKiuil  sunsnine 
ill  this  sweet  and  shady  phice. 

I  hold  in  my  hand  a  voluino, 

riiat  one  lias  ;^iven  to  ine.'* 
With  a  spray  of  the  keen  wild  briar. 

That  has  »;rown  beside  the  sea;— 

Till,  with  the  niinj^led  memories — 
The  ira<;ranee  of  long-tlown  years, 

And  the  soothin<'-  son<f  of  the  Poet, 
My  heart  is  touched  to  tears. 

For  this,  to  me.  is  a  casket. 

That  doth  piecious  things  enshrine; 

And  th«'  voice  of  a  heait  is  uttered 
In  many  a  hurried  line. 

"lis  no  wine-tilh'd  vase,  tine-carven. 

With  ti<»ures  sleek  and  slim; 
■Tis  an  earthen  howl,  with  life-blood 

That  mantles  to  the  brhn. 

And  he.  whose  son<^  this  evening 

Still  holds  uie  by  the  sea. 
Had  a  sense  of  the  imseen  beauty. 

And  the  unheard  melody. 

lint  the  Hard  hath  ceased  from  sino;ing, 

Whose  ej'e  had  i)rivile^e 
Of  tlie  lighted  land  immortal, 

'I'hrough  the  shade  of  the  "  Covered  BrUhje.'''' 

O  Poet  I — all  men's  brother  I 
Where'er,  to-idght,  thou  art, 


2.    A  copy  of  David    Barker's   P«)cms,   prtstntcd  to  ine  by  the   Poet's 

brother. 

13 


ill: 


i! 


ill!'' 


lOS 


ON  ISLESBOBO. 


I  i 


My  kindred  spirit  greets  thee, 
VVitli  these  beatinfi;s  of  luy  lieart. 

If  thou  hadst  faults  I  ask  not, 
Nor  what  was  thy  chosen  creed ; 

For  tlie  poor  and  oppressed  and  trodden, 
I  only  hear  thee  plead. 

I  look  not,  scrutinizing. 
For  the  faults  that  all  may  find ; 

Thou  hast  sung  the  songs  that  may  hearten 
And  unify  mankind. 

And  I  dream  I  should  go  to  see  thee, 
From  this  splendid  sunset  shore ; 

But  thy  place  is  the  home  eternal, 
And  thou  canst  be  seen  no  more. 

But,  perhaps,  when  these  dreams  are  over, 

And  the  painful  toiling  ends, 
In  the  land  where  the  shadows  are  not, 

We  may  meet  as  old-time  friends. 


I 


QUILT    IN     SOLITUDE. 


^HE  wretched  have  iiu  hour  to  weep, 
And  penitence  may  bring  repose ; 
But  there  are  thouglits  that  cannot  sleep, 

And  endless,  solitary  woes  : — 
For  me  sin's  sorrow  hath  no  close ; 
I  am  a  soul  stain'd  and  unshriven. 
To  whom  no  soothing  hour  is  given. 

The  erring  tind  an  hour  to  pray. 

The  faint  on  pitying  Mercy  call; 
The  freshness  of  an  earlier  day. 

When,  innocent,  he  trusted  all. 
Again  upon  his  heart  n>ay  fall ; — 
My  poisoned  spring  of  life  doth  tend 
To  bitterness  that  hath  no  end. 

Eyes,  that  have  wept  away  their  bloom. 
May  light  their  orbs  of  faded  blue ; 

And  pallid  cheeks  the  rose  resume, 
As  fields  their  llowery  robes  renew ; 

But  smiles  have  bidden  me  adieu  ; 

Nor  laughter,  on  its  ruby  shore 

Shall  break  its  joyous  wavelets  more. 


104 


I, 'I 


.I'T 


GUILT  IN  SOLITUDE. 


For.  ill  this  lonely  horrnit  coll, 

Wjitching  the  hosts  that  in  he.aven's  bower. 
And  niffht's  etornul  palace,  dwell, 

I  spend,  nnseen,  the  midni<?ht  hour. 
The  captive  of  some  awful  Power; 
HeiMunbed  in  heart,  with  cankering  pain. 
And  branded  with  the  curse  of  Cain. 

Star  of  lost  IIopi^!  long  set — O  where. 
Amid  these  shades,  will  ye  arise? 

When  will  I  see  your  lustre  rare 
Amid  the  glory  of  yon  skies? 

Alas!  ye  ne'er  shall  greet  my  eyes! 

At  noon  of  day,  or  night,  the  air 

Breeds  onlj'  (Musing  and  despair. 

Ears!  but  for  one;  unceasing  cry  I — 
Eyes!  but  for  one  unfading  stain! — 

In  vain  from  these  I  seek  to  lly, — 
To  lag  or  linger  is  in  vain! 

A  fearful  breathing  haunts  the  plain; 

And  if  I  walk  by  wood  or  hill. 

The  spectre  dogs  my  footsteps  still. 

Oft,  'mid  a  hurrying  hiunan  sea. 

I've  swept  along  the  diz/ying  street. 
And  felt  that  all  men  looked  at  me. 

Till  terror  wing'd  my  hastening  feet; 
And  ere  I  reached  my  dim  retreat. 
The  rills  poured  down  a  crimson  tlood, 
The  evening  sun  seemed  bathed  in  blood ! 

One  awful  Voice  in  all  things  speaks! — 
It  shrieks  out  of  the  twilight  glade; 

Against  each  shuddering  hill  it  breaks. 
And  rustles  under  every  shade: 


QUILT  IN  SOLITUDE. 


lOB 


My  choek  is  blaneliod,  my  soul  dlsratiyed ; 
Then  niofkiiig  poals  aflright  the  air, 
And  ring  the  dirge  of  my  despair  I 

I  feel  not  earthly  joy.  nor  need, 
Nor  the  wild  pulse  of  strange  desire; 

Eeinote  frou)  men  I  sit,  and  feed 

My  heart  with  keen,  remorseful  lire: 

I  have  nor  wife,  nor  child,  nor  sire; — 

Happy  am  I.  in  this,  that  no 

Unhappy  life  can  share  \\\y  woe. 

For,  surely  as  the  bird  of  eve 

Shall  charuj  with  song  her  favorite:  vale. 
And  surid)'  as  the  heart  nuist  grieve, 

VV»       bliss  of  love  is  changed  to  bale, 
I  ^  pronounce  my  doleful  tale: — 

Judgment  and  doom  upon  me  press. 
And  the  voice  whispers  me — "Confess!" 

And  Love — is  but  a  thought  resigned, 
Awakening  seai'ce  a  passing  sigh. 

Like  music  breathed  upon  the  wind, 
'J'hat  wins  not  to  the  ear  reply : 

Tis  not  for  me  to  love,  but  die ! — 

I  dare  not  link  thy  fate  with  mine — 

lam  a  murderer — Madeline]^ 


I.  Bulwer's  ^'■Eugene  Aram"  furnished  me  the  sufjji^estion  of  these 
stanzas;  and  the  name  mentioned  above,  is  that  of  thti j^ntice  the  novelist 
furnished  for  the  unfortunate  schohir. 


SIR    RICHARD    ORKNVILLE. 


'■i  I 


(HE  days  of  chivalry  are  passed, 
And  men  love  war  no  more; 
They  pale  at  the  bugle's  thrilling  blast, 
And  the  thundering  cannon's  roar. 

But  days  there  were  when  the  warrior's  steed 

Scented  the  fight  afar ; 
And  the  warrior's  spirit  follow'd  the  lead 

Of  tlie  battle's  crimson  star. 

In  days  of  Britain's  virgin  Queen, 

When  Britons  ruled  the  seas, 
A  braver  than  Sir  Richard  ne'er 

Flung  standard  to  the  breeze. 

And  Spain  had  learned  to  fear  him — 

He  seemed  a  demon  dread,   . 
Whose  phantom  ship  swept  o'er  the  sea, 

From  some  haven  of  the  dead. 

Lord  Thoiuas  Howard  sailed  awa)', 

To  fight  with  haughty  Spain ; 
With  six  good  line-of-battle  ships 

He  sailed  to  the  Spanish  Main. 


sin  RICHABD  GRENVILLE. 


107 


But  8lckne<?s  and  fierce  tempest 

Were  his  only  enemy, 
THI  downward  swept  the  Spanish  fleet, 

Witli  ships,  full  fifty-three. 

Then  lusty  brave  Sir  Thomas 
Cried,  •'  Save  ye  while  ye  may ! " 

He  would  not  look  on  valiant  lives 
Flung  uselessly  away. 

Then  spake  Sir  Richard  Grenville : 

"  I've  braved  death  on  the  sea 
For  many  a  year,  and  without  fear 

To  meet  my  fate  am  free ; 
But  I  will  not  do  a  deed  of  shame. 
Nor  brand  my  loyal  Enoflish  name, 

By  turning  now  to  flee ! " 

Then  spake  he  to  his  sailors — 

A  hundred  men  had  he — 
"Come,  my  brave  boys,  we'll  stay,  I  ween. 
And  for  the  honor  of  our  Queen 

Will  we  disdain  to  flee !  " 

Then  bore  he  on  the  Spaniards, 

With  all  his  canvas  spread ; 
Into  the  fray  alone  went  he, — 
'Twas  afternoon — the  hour  was  three — 

The  other  ships  had  fled. 

Five  mighty  warrior-ships  came  on, 
And  tower'd  above  them  high ; — 

Full  fearlessly,  full  dauutlessly 
The  hundred  went  to  die. 

They  lock'd  the  little  vessel  in — 
'Twas  a  fearful  sight  to  see ! — 


106 


'    '; 


SIB  RICHARD  G RENVILLE. 


For  till'  Jill-  was  full  of  slieettid  \hiuw 
From  their  artillery! 

A  bavvliii^jf  hell  rolled  roiuitl  them  I — 

The  thimders  louder  •(row; 
Hut  never  au  inch,  brave  Britons 

(jive  up  to  the  tierce  foe: 
Two  ships  were  sunken  in  the  main. 
And  near  a  thousand  Si)aniurds  slain — 

They  plied  them  blow  for  blow ! 

Amid  tlie  rout  the  sun  went  down — 
Went  down  in  fire  and  blood; 

The  crimson  night  above  shone  briglit. 
And  below  the  crimson  tlood; 

The  w<'lkin  shook  with  shriek  and  roar, 

And  the  decks  were  slippery  with  gore. 
Where  ever}-  sailor  stood. 

Through  all  the  long  and  learful  hours 

Tile  midnight  bjvttle  rolled. 
Wliile  hearts  of  oak.  by  God's  good  grace. 

Tlieir  posts  of  vantage  liold, 
Till  fifteen  hundred  foemeu 

Were  lying  still  and  cold. 

Then  on  that  great  Armada 

Fell  terror  and  dismay; 
"■  These  are  not  men !  "   with  whitening  lips, 

The  Spanisli  sailors  say ; 
•'  Mother !   we  fight  with  devils  I  " 

They  did  to  Mary  pray. 

When  slowly  the  gray  morn  arose, 
'Twas  the  strangest  sight.  I  ween. 

That  ever  on  this  earth  of  ours 
By  human  eye  was  seen  I 


SIR  BICHARD  O RENVILLE. 


109 


The  Rriton'.s  Hlii|)— a  sliattorM  hulk, 

III  nun — stood  at  bay; 
VVhile  round  hor  in  a  traiico  of  fear, 

The  whole  Armada  lay. 

But  of  the  hundrod  sailors 

Few.  very  few,  remain; 
And  dauntless  IJiehard  (jlieiivllle  lies 

Sore  wounded,  "midst  the  slain. 

Then,  with  a  hold  and  eheery  voice. 

Ills  last  eomuiand  he  «5ave  : 
'•  Now  s|)lit  the  ship.  <i,ood  <j;uinier. 

And  sink  her  in  the  wave! 
TIs  best  we  all  ;;•()  down  with  her. 

As  well  hellts  the  brave.'' 

But  tliev  were  erown'd  with  iirlorv — 
Their  wreaths  were  fairly  won  : 

''\ay,  we  have  ehildnMi,  we  have  wives, 
And  for  their  sakes  we  save  our  lives,— 
We  deem  our  dutv  doue." 


Tlu^y  bore  him  to  the  Spanish  d<!ck; 

And  by  the  mast  reclined, 
lie  heard,  in  pain,  tlieir  (-(turtly  praise. 
Then  his  spent  form  he  did  upraise. 

And  nobly  thus  rejoined: 

''  I  have  but  done  my  duty, 

As  any  man  should  do. 
Aiid  loyally  have  served  my  Que(Mi, 

And  to  my  Faith  i)een  true. 
14 


w 


■\  I 


110 


STIi  RICHARD  GRENVILLE. 


''And  li<M«?  I.  Ikicliurd  <Jn'uvill«'. 

Do  Iciivc  tlic  earth  Ix'liiiid; 
With  j^Iadsonio  spirit  I  (l<|>jirt. 

Aiul  vvltii  a  quiet  mind  \  "  ' 

God  rest  the  lieart  of  JK'roes, 
Wlio  will  not  live  in  shame  I 

They  die,  hut  leave  the  world  tlio  light 
Of  their  unspotted  fame. 


I.  Two  pofts  of  our  cfiitiiry  liavr  i;iviii  us  a  ptji'tical  record  of  this  famous 
action,  ami  hotli  liavc  i;ivc-n  a  vcrsidii  of  the  dyiii^r  spc'i-cli  of  (jrenvillc.  As 
good  vviiif,  but  not  llic  hist,  wl-  taku  the  cii|)  from   (iirahl  Massiy : 

'"Hire  die  I,  Kichard  Grenvillc, 

W'itli  a  joyful  ami  (udet  mind  ; 
I  reach  a  soldier's  iiid  ;   I  leave 

A  soldier's  lame  luhiml, 
W'lio  for  his  (|\ieeii  and  eoiintrv  fmj^ht, 
I<"or  honor  and  ri'lii^inn  wrouy^ht. 
Ami  died  as  a  true  solilier  ouiilit.'" 

But  now  we  hear  'I'ennyson,  in  his  noble  "  lutllad  of  the  Fleet :" 

"And  the  stately  Spanish  men  to  their  llati-shi|)  bore  him  then, 
Where  they  laid'him  by  the  mast,  old  Sir  Kichard,  caught  at  last. 
And  they  ])raised  him  to  his  face  with  their  conrtlv  foreign  j^race; 

Hut  hi'  rose  upon  tlii'ir  decks,  and  he  cried  : 
'I  liavc  fought  for  (^jiei  n  and  I'aith  like  a  valiant  man  and  true; 
I  have  onlv  done  my  duty  as  a  man  is  bound  to  do : 
With  a  joyful  s|)irit  I.  Sir  IJichard  Grenville,  die!' 
And  he  fell  upon  their  decks,  and  he  died !" 

Such  simple-hearted  doers  of  i^reat  duties  are  worthy  of  ^^rcat  poets;  they 
invite  the  harp  with  attractive  lustres  : 

"A  vesture  very  ^'lorious 

Their  shining-  spirits  wear, 
Of  noble  deeds." 


iVI  O  R  N  I  N  C 


^ 


I'KOM    ChAI  IKH.   I 


,\ILV  tln'  lark.  Mitlic  incsstMiujcr  of  day, 
5r    Saluted  with  his  soiiij  ilic  iu(>nii'';jj  ^>"iiy ; 
And  llciy  l*li(i'l)us  liailcil  witli  (laiM'ii)«;  li;Lrlit 
Tho  dewy  ticlds  tliat.  !iiis\v»'riMii;.  sp.n-klcd  l)ri«^ht: 
The  »^oldni  sticaiiis  that  lioiii  liis  l)()S(>iii  flow 
lllumiiu'd  all  the  shady  world  helow. 
Refreshed  the  lloweis.  and  in  the  proves  so  <;r(!en 
IJried  all  the  silvei-  drops  that  on  the  leaves  weic  seen. 
Then  Arclte  rose  from  sleep,  and  hied  him  forth 
To  ^reet  the  May.  and  join  her  <;('n('ial  mirth: 
Monnteil  his  eonrsei'.  who  so  li^^htly  trod 
Made  scarce  a  dint  in  the  elasti<'  sod; 
'J'hough.  as  if  winded  with  tire,  h«'  movml  ahroaU. 

Across  the  blossomed  lields.  in  playful  mood. 

lie  sped  his  course  toward  a  iieii;lil)oi'inj^  wood. — 

A  shady  «jfi'ove  of  tall  and  stately  trees, 

The  haunt  of  many  a  hii'd  and  wanderin<;  breeze. 

Arrived,  his  nimble  steed  secure  he  made. 

And  Areite  entered  'neath  the  cooliui;  shade; 


I.    The  ''Knight's  Tale. 


112 


MOHNINQ. 


FaHliioiu'd  of  woodbiiir  aiid  yoiiii^j  liawtliorn  sin'ayw 
A  <j;iirl!iinl  <;iiy,     ♦     *     ♦ 
Tlion  fji(;«;d  tlio  rising  huh.  with  lusty  cheer, 
And  sung  Ids  Miiy-diiy  cjirol  loud  and  (dear. 


Once.  If  fell  npon  a  morn  in  May 

Tlial  Kndly  In  fairer  ;;nise  was  seen 

Than  the  pure  lily  on  its  htalk  of  ^reen. 

Or  that  youn^\  llowi'ry  linie  with  blossoms  new; 

And  her  fair  face  viecl  with  tlu;  rose's  hue, — 

I  know  not  which  was  lovelier  (d'  the  two. 

ncfoi'c  the  sun  had  lit  his  (»as|ein  lire, 

What  time  tlie  dews  he;;;em  each  grassy  spire. 

Sh(»  was  aris'n  from  sleep,  and  w«dl  l)cdi<;ht, — 

For  May-time  speedeth  slumber,  with  the  night; 

The  genial  s«'ason  sliis  each  gentle  breast. 

And  moves  the  sluggard  to  forego  his  rest. 

Thus  did  the  gentle  Kndly  apjtcar. 
To  d(>  her  honor  to  the  bloondng  year; 
In  all  her  maiden  beauty  went  she  forth. 
As  freshly  clad  as  was  the  gladsome  earth  ; 
liraid«Ml  in  tress(>s  long,  her  y(dlow  hair 
J^ookM  richly  g<dden  in  the  sunny  air. 
Then  in  the  gai'den.  when  the  smi  had  risen. 
She  graceful  walked  below  I'alamon's  prison. 
And  gathered  llowers  of  parti-wliitc  and  red. 
To  weave  a  garland  to  adorn  her  head; 
And  as  an  angel,  heaven's  bright  bowers  among, 
Some  sweet  and  simple  nudody  she  sung. 


pi.. 


131 KU   ON    THfc:    SKA. 


Sinall  land-birds  urc  soiitctimus  cau^lit  l<y  stroiijir  winds  and  carried  out 
to  sea. 


liird  oil  tlio  st'jil 
How  wet  tliy  wiiij^s  with  ll;isliiii«^  fojim. 

Ami  thy  phiiua^o  h(Mh';i<^i5l<Ml  witli  brine: 
lliis  the  kiss  of  tho  curolliii*^  sou 
111  tlic  toiMpcst,  or  broad  suiisliiiu», 

Iku'ii  ph^asiiiit  to  tlic'oV 
I  SCO  tlico  a  tlionsiiiid  mil«'s,  or  more, 
I'roin  tlic  <^r('eii  and  ^old  of  tliy  ha[)i)y  sliore, 
Wiii^iii«;  tiiy  way  oN'r  tho  iKirrcii  sea, 
Bereft  of  tliy  tuneful,  ebullient  i^lee — 

Bird  on  the  seal 

Bird  on  the  sea ! 
Toucliin«^  th(!  wave  with  thy  soft  white  breast, 

Art  tlioii  l()()kiii»^  for  rest? 
Beneath  thee  the  pitiless  l)iIlows  sweep 

Of  an  unsunned  de«'p, 
And  thou  art  out  on  a  weary  (^uest : 

Where  is  thy  nest? — 

On  what  sunny  shore, 

'Neath  what  cloudless  sky 


114 


BIRD   ON  THE  SEA. 


Hast  thou  left  thy  iiuiti!  iiiiciired-for  to  die? 
Come,  vviiiidcrer  lone,  to  our  friendly  bark. 
For  the  wjiv(!S  are  wild,  and  the  ni>^ht  comes  dark, 

And  the  barren  sea 

Hath  no  place  for  tliee. 
And  no  love  to  give — so  may'st  come  to  me ; 

Thou  may'st  come;  and  live, 

Unrestrained  and  free  — 
Bird  on  the  sea! 

liird  on  the  sea ! 

Ah,  little  bird. 

Thy  presence  hath  stirred 

Stran«;e  thou<^hts  in  me. 
And  wakened  fond  memories  out  of  their  sleep! 
Somewhere  I  somewhere — Ciod  doth  knowl — 
In  the  treacherous  ocean  th.it  rolls  below. 

In  caves  of  the  deep 

IJes  a  gentle  heart 

That  hath  ceased  to  beat, — 
A  heart  so  gentle,  and  brave,  and  sweet. 
So  full  of  manhood,  and  genial  heat, 
With  a  royal  love  in  its  inmost  i)art ! 

The  years  they  come,  like  the  clouds,  and  go, 
And  the  litful  winds  blow  high  and  low, 
And  the  s<ia  beneath  moves  to  and  fro, 

Incessantly; 

And  back  to  the  shore 

My  boy  comes  nevermore  : 
Heard  ye  aught  of  him  who  went  from  me? 
See  ye  aught  of  him.  where  ye  sing  and  soar, 

J3ird  on  the  sea? 

Bird  on  the  sea ! 

Is  there  a  rest  for  thee? 


BIBD  ON  THE  SEA. 


115 


fs  tnorp  enso  to  the  iu'Hit  from  this  worhl's  mls(M'y? 

With  a  y<'«irMiii«^  stroii*^. 

I  lonjj;'.  and  lon;i^ 

For  a  simny  shoro. 

And  a  happy  son";. 
Where  my  loiif;  lost  mates  thick-clustered  are — 
A  dim,  sweet  land,  afar,  afar  I 

On  a  stormfiil  day 

1  strayed  away. 
S\yept  out  to  the  deeps  from  a  sludtered  bay. 
'Tis  ni^litl — Ah  I  eometh  a  brighter  day — 

Bird  on  the  sea? 


Bird  on  the  sea! 
What!  art  thou  rested  and  flown? — 
From  my  sij^ht  for  aye  art  thou  ^one. 
Soarin<»:  aloft  in  the  purple  haze. 
Mid  the  settin<|:  sim's  departing  rays? 

I  weep,  and  look  aftei-  thee. 

Afar  over  the  sea; 
For  I  am  thy  fellow-wanderer. 
Win{2^in<jj  my  way.  and  makinj^  my  ujoan. 
Seekin<^  for  rest  and  tindlni^  none. 

Perhaps,  onee  more 

Thon  wilt  find  the  shore. 
And  thy  unite,  and  thy  nestlings  warm  with  her; 

lint  my  exile  heart, 

Hath  that  a  part 
In  the  home-felt  joy  that  awaiteth  thee — 

Bird  on  the  sea? 

Fliest  alone — despairing — fiee — 

Bird  on  the  sea? 
The  latest  gleauj  of  the  orient  star 
lias  burned  to  ashes  yon  cloudy  bar. 


I. 


116 


BIRD   ON  THE  SEA. 


That  in  tho  West  shono  'r)rllliiintly; 
Thfi  glooming  wing  of  the  muffled  night 
TIsis  hidden  tlie  star-tipped  lieavens  from  sight, 
And  tlie  winds  begin  to  blow. 

Where  wilt  thou  flit,  in  sad  affright, 
While  the  billows  darkle  and  sweep  below? — 

And  is  there  a  way 
That  a  soul  must  go 

Dark  and  astray — 
And  the  gulf  below — 

Never! — never  I — never  to  know 
Of  hope,  or  Savior — or  future  release 
From  a  gloomy  prison — or  calming  peace? 
Will  the  brine  of  Fate  glide  on  forever. 
And  move  in  deathful  play — 

Hurrying  on — 
Relentless  still  to  the  soul's  endeavor — 

Hurrying,  hurrying  forever 

To  th(!  grave  of  a  dying  sun. 

In  tlie  night-guarded  West? 

Shall  ii  heart  forever  weep. 

And  a  memory  never  sleep? 
Shall  a  soul  still  live,  yet  the  death-chill  creep 

To  its  inmost  core? 

O  God  !  is  there  no  )'est — no  rest — 
For  a  soul  that  is  unblest! 

Ah,  yes !  a  rift  I  see. 
And  a  star  I — There  is  hope  for  me ! 
My  treasure  shall  all  bi;  gathered  out  of  the  cruel  seal 
Many  nights  have  o'er  me  hovered. 
But  all  nights  shall  soon  be  o'er; 
The  wet  winding-sheet  hatli  covered 
Not  my  love  forevermore ! 


BIBD  ON  THE  SEA. 


U7 


The  still  heart  shall  beat  again, 
Rescued  from  the  hungry  main ; 
And  the  happy  hours  shall  wing, 
Liglit-laden  with  new  joy: 
The  magic  waves  of  a  mystic  sea 
Shall  mingle  siuishine  and  melody; 
And,  brighter  than  genii  of  the  deep, 
Shall  hover  over  the  sleep 
Of  ni}'^  sailor-boy. 

There  is  hope,  there  is  joy,  for  a  wing  as  free. 
And  a  heart  as  constant,  as  One  above 

Hath  given  to  thee  ! 
To  the  ear  that  is  open,  to  th«!  eye  that  would  see. 
To  faith,  in  the  dark — in  the  sunshine,  love — 
There  is  never  despair,  foi"  with  God  we  move — 

Fiird  on  the  sea! 


16 


OUR     HEAVENIvV     FATHERLAND. 


Imitated  from  the  (iernian  of  Arndt. 

llj  IIEHE  is  the  Heavenly  Fatherland? 
^^^    Is  it  on  tliis,  or  otlier  straiul? 
Is  it  by  Earth's  most  stately  streams? 
Or  is  it  in  some  place  of  dreams? — 

Ah.  no.  no.  no  I 
That  Countiy  is  not  bonnded  sol 

Where  is  the  heait's  trne  Fatherland? 
Where  warm  waves  beat  on  silver  sand? 
Where  ^reen-elad  islands  fragrantly 
Are  girdled  by  wide  leagues  of  sea? — 

Ah.  no,  no,  no  I 
Our  Fatherland's  not  bounded  so! 

Where  is  it  then— that  Fatherland? 

Is  It  the  Briton's — German's  strand? 

Is  it  the  land  of  Bruce,  or  Tell?— 

Has  Earth  the  home  shall  please  me  well?— 

Ah,  no.  no.  no  I 
Our  Fatherland's  not  bounded  so! 

Where  is  our  Heavenly  Fatherland? 
Come,  tell  where  is  that  wished-for  strand ! 


OUR  HEAVENLY  FATHERLAND. 


119 


Is  it  below  the  (l«'ep.  deep  sea. 
Where  crystal  halls  all  radiant  be? — 

Ah.  no.  no,  no  I 
Our  Fatherhind's  not  bounded  so. 

Where,  then,  may  be  that  Fatherland? 
Is  it  in  yon  sky-spaces  <;rand? 
Is  it  wh(Me  fretted  tires  from  high 
Entrance  tlu;  poet's  dreanilng  eye? — 

Ah,  no,  no,  no  I 
Our  Fatherland's  not  bounded  so! 

Where  is  the  heart's  true  Fatherland? 
Is  it  on  Morning's  cloudy  strand? 
Or  where  in  serial  heights  so  gaj'. 
The  golden  sunset  nuilts  away?— 

Ah.  no.  no,  no  ! 
Our  Fatherland's  not  boinided  sol 

Where  is  the  heart's  true  Fatherland? 
Where  is  that  deep-d<;8ired  strand? 
Is  it  on  far  Judea's  hill? 
Is  it  where  flows  Siloa's  rill:' 

Ah,  no,  no,  no  I 
Our  Fatherland's  not  bounded  sol 

Where  is  the  heart's  true  Fatherland? 
Wliere  hearts  each  other  understand. 
Where  Truth's  clear-soiuidiiig  accent  rings, 
'»Vhere  the  Soul  innocently  sings? 

Ay,  that's  the  laud ! — 
Them,  brother,  is  thy  Fatherland. 

Where  is  the  heart's  true  Fatherland? 
Where  is  this  sweet  enchanted  land? — 
Is  it  where  Love  hath  come  to  dwell, 


fT'^flft'1''' 


fi     I 


f  ii 


120 


OUB  HEAVENLY  FATHEBLAND. 


And  holy  hymns  enraptured  swell? 

Ay,  that's  the  land!— 
There,  brother,  is  thy  Fatherland  I 

Where  is  thy  Heavenly  Fatherland? 
Where  is  that  rare  and  radiant  land? — 
Is't  where  the  saved  in  Jesus  dwell, 
Where  Meekness  rei<jns  imperial? — 

Ay,  there's  the  land  I — 
Thy  high,  exalted  Fatherland  I 

Where  is  thy  Heavenly  Fatheiiand? 
Where  are  the  many  mansions  planned? — 
Is  it  where  souls  in  l)eauty  glow, 
Where  only  JSin  is  held  a  toe? — 
Ay.  there's  the  land  ! — 
There,  brother,  is  thy  Fatherland  ! 

There  is  thy  heart's  true  Fatherland, — 
Where  men  delight  in  (iod's  eommand, 
Where  honor  lives  in  speaking  eyes, 
"And  in  the  heart  love  warmly  lies;" — 

That  is  thy  land  !— 
Thy  heart's  true  land — thy  Fatherland  ! 

Where  is  thy  heart's  true  Fatherland? — 
Where  like  a  tiery  ranjpart,  stJind 
God's  Angels? — where,  assembled  bright, 
Are  fair  forms  precious  to  our  sight? — 

Ay,  there's  the  land  I — 
There,  brother  is  thy  Fatherland  I 

Where  is  thy  heart's  true  Fatherland? — 
Saj',  is  it  where,  at  God's  right  hand. 
We  every  wound  of  Love  may  trace, 
And  look  upon  Inunanuel's  face? — 

Ay,  there''s  thy  land ! — 
There  is  thy  Heavenly  Fatherland ! 


,■■  ^m 


■» 


XO     rvIV     P^ATHKR. 


^i^IIY  looks  and  tones  are  in  my  heart  to-night, 

; ;       As  when  tliou — j^nardian  of  my  infant*}'! — 

Wonltlst  take  thy  little  ones  upon  thy  knee. 

Betwixt  the  shadows  and  home's  evening  light. 
Speaking  sweet  rhymes,  and  tales  of  phantasy, 
And  singing  many  a  lusty  roundelay. 


Perchance,  from  Ocean — bleak  abod«;  of  storms — 
Domain  of  terrors  to  our  childish  thought! — 
Thou  late  hadstcome.  with  curious  treasure  fraught  !- 

Corals,  and  sea-fans,  and  the  shelly  forms, 

All  pearly-hned,  from  Neptune's  palace  hall: 

Then  liadst  thou  many  wonder-words  to  say 
To  longing  cars — the  sombre  and  the  gay, — 

Nor  were  we  quite  content  till  thou  hadst  told  us  all. 

We  saw^  thee  walking  on  the  breezy  deck 

At  midnight,  and  the  starry  guide  surveyed 
That  led  thee  :  then  thou  broughtest  to  our  aid 

Fancy,  to  pore  upon  the  sinking  wreck, 

And  the  frail  tossing  boat  that  sheer'd  away. 
With  eyes  dilate,  we  shared  their  dumb  dismay 

Who,  on  long-rolling  South  Atlantic  seas, 

Fled  their  doomed  ship,  and,  streaming  on  the  breeze, 


HI 


TO  MY  FATHER. 


Saw  tVie  swift  mocking  fires  liglit  up  tlieir  way. 
Yet,  burning  sliips,  nor  watery  gulfs,  the  wJiile, 
Should  rob  us  of  thy  presence  and  thy  smile ! 

How  glad  were  we  that  thou  hadst  safel}'  come, 
Like  some  strong  bird,  whose  wings  with  tempests  toil, 

Back  to  our  sheltering  nest,  and  wert  at  home. 
Beyond  the  calms  and  tumults  of  the  sea! 

Ah !  how  the  years  have  dealt  with  us — with  thee! 

How  fresh  thy  cheek  was  then,  that  the  sharp  wind 

Swept  over,  and  that  felt  the  flying  spray ! — 
How  dark  thine  eyes — thy  hair!    Alas!    I  find 

Sorrow  hath  left  her  traces  there ! — decay 
Of  hopes  long  cherished  saddens  o'er  the  mind : — 

Thou,  too,  hast  had  thy  joys  that  passed  away. 
My  sire !    The  splendors  of  thy  fiowery  May — 
Thy  natal  month  and  mine — stay  not  behind 

Their  time,  to  deck  our  boughs  with  garlands  gay! 
Yet,  ri(di  in  faith  toward  God,  in  gentleness 
Toward  man,  be  thou !   May  Heaven's  protection  bless 
And  shield  the  brow  whose  locks  are  growing  gray ! 


AC A  D I E 


"  Home  of  the  happy." 

There's  a  music  sweetest, 
A  son^j  completest, — 
We  heard  it  sun^ 
Where  life  was  young'. 

"Our  native   land  charms   us  witli    inexpressible   sweetness,   and   never 
allows  us  to  forget  that  we  belong  to  it." — Ovid. 


ill  IIILE  British  binds  tlie  lyre  awake. 
y^^     And  strike  tlie  iiarp  to  glory  strung. 
Do  none  mij  country's  praises  speak? — 

Must  my  fair  land  remain  unsung? 
Awake!   to  noblest  minstrelsy. 

Loved  Muse!  the  patriot  bosom  stir! 
And  strike  to  passion,  tiery-free. 

My  wild,  unhonored  harp,  for  her! 

Yet,  not  unknown  to  song  is  she, 
E'er  since  the  Western  Master  came 

To  twine  the  flowers  of  poesy 
Around  her  sweet  unstoried  name: — 

Yet  the  enchanting  story  tell, 

And  paint  Aft'ection's  heavenly  mien— 


124 


ACAD  IE. 


The  mounifnl  fnto  of  Gabriel, 
The  sorrow  of  Evangeline!' 

But.  O  my  birth-land!  wilt  thou  not 

Hring  forth  thy  glowing  minstrel  choir — 
Bright  musters  of  enclianted  thought, 

And  skilled  to  strike  tliy  native  lyre? 
Its  slumbering  chords  too  long  lie  dumb, 

Since  rural  music's  earlier  j'eur :' 
Come!  ye  enraptured  songsters,  come! 

8ing!  and  the  listening  land  shall  hear! 

Sweet,  now,  to  tread  her  morning  fields 

VVliere  once  her  dews  ^nibatlied  my  feet, 
And  hear  the  song  eacli  thicket  yields, 

And  drink  each  wild  bloom's  breathing  sweet; 
Or.  when  the  tifle  of  evening  light 

O'erflows  with  gold  the  crimson'd  West. 
From  liills.  to  watch  the  splendors  bright. 

With  fern,  and  tiowering  laurel  drest. 

Sweet,  there,  to  liear  the  voice  of  Spring 

Clear-vvarbled  by  tlie  mellow  thrush; 
To  hear  the  early  bluebird  sing. 

And  see  tlie  robin's  bosom  blush; 
Through  deep'ning  grass,  all  sunlit,  warm, 

'I'o  walk  along  the  daisied  plain ; 
While  Ceres  reaches  forth  her  aim 

To  clothe  the  fields  with  g(»l(len  grain. 

1.  Longfellow's  "  £vang'eli»e*'  was  an  early  delight  to  me,  and  has  en- 
veloped the  scenes  of  my  boyhood  in  an  atmosphere  of  perpetual  romance. 
If  no  sontfs  are  ever  sung  within  her  borders  that  shall  have  the  fires  of 
genius  and  the  gift  of  immortality  in  them,  his  idyl  has  made  her  classic,  and 
assured  her  the  perpetuity  of  glory. 

2.  Nova  Scotia  had  her  early  singers,  with  merit  in  their  lays.  There 
was  poor  McPherson,  the  consumptive  school-master,  who,  amid  the  rude 
conditions  of  frontier  and  pioneer  life,  sung,  and  wrought,  and  languished. 
Surely  there  is  a  plaintive  sweetness,  a  warbang  melody,  in  his  lines  that  re- 
mind us  of  tlie  fiutings  of  Michael  Bruce  or  John  Logan. 


AC  AD  IE. 


125 


Though  hers  be  not  the  storied  lore 

To  which  eartli's  prouder  lands  aspire. 
Yet  there  are  legends  on  her  shore 

That  eonrt  the  bard's  historic  lyre  : 
Look  forth.  O  stranger! — not  in  art, 

In  nature,  is  Acadia  fair! — 
And  thou  niay'st  lind  the  purest  heart. 

The  simplest  mould  of  beauty  there ! 

Tread  where  her  vales  are  deep  and  sweet, 

When  lapt  in  Summer's  hazy  dreams. 
Where  wilt  thou,  pensive  wanderer,  meet 

With  gieener  woods,  or  clearer  streams? 
Her  wildwood  nooks  seclusion  give 

To  him  who  seeks  to  muse,  or  rove, 
And  mazy,  singing  brooks,  that  live 

In  music,  such  as  poets  love. 

The  swallow's  wing  stoops  swiftly  down. 

With  burnish'd  breast,  to  touch  the  wave 
Of  the  still  lake,  that  bears  the  frown 

Of  granite  cliff,  and  mountain  brave : 
Her  hill-slopes  court  the  morning  beams, 

Hustling  each  mossy-vestured  tree; 
While  mad  with  joy,  her  mountain  streams 

Go  leaping  downward  to  the  sea! 

How  often,  from  a  stranger  shore. 

The  exile-spirit  turns  to  view 
In  Memory's  magic  glass,  once  more. 

The  peaceful  scenes  that  once  she  knew  !- 
For  thou,  Acadio,  art  my  home — 

Sacred  to  Boyhood's  joyous  mirth — 
Where'er  I  rest,  where'er  I  roam. 

The  most  beloved  land  on  earth ! 
16 


m 


MS 


ACADIE, 


Laud  of  the  Mayflower!  could  I  deem 

That  thou  wouldst  yet  reujeinber  me. 
What  joy  in  every  mushig  dream, 

And  each  aspirhij^  thought  of  thee ! 
But  long  self-exiled  from  thy  shore. 

Singing,  apart,  my  idle  songs. 
How  stiould  I  be  remembered  more? 

What  of  thy  praise  to  me  belongs? 

Yet  shall  I  love  thee,  O  my  land  ! 

Yet  must  I  still  remember  thee! 
And  could  my  power  such  boon  command. 

The  sons  of  honor  thine  should  be : 
Heroes  upon  thy  soil  siiould  spring. 

Sublime  in  war,  and  true  in  peace ; 
Poets,  the  world  should  crown,  to  sing 

Such  songs  as  live  till  soug  shall  cease. 

My  native  land !     My  heart's  first  home ! 

The  world  holds  not  a  chavui  like  thine! 
They  weave  fond  dreams  who  rove  and  roam. 

And  trace  the  Tiber  and  the  Rhine : 
But  not  beneath  Italia's  sky, 

'Mid  prospects  beauteous,  wild  or  grand. 
Can  fairer  scenes  delight  the  eye 

Than  grace  mj'  own,  my  native  land. 

Acadie !  sweet  thj'^  name  to  me. 

As  music,  trembling  from  afar, 
And  breathing  o'er  some  moonlit  sea, 

'Twixt  fire-tipt  wave,  and  silver  star : 
Of  other  lands  a  sound  I  hear — 

Names  with  a  meaning  half  divine; 
But  none  can  ever  fill  my  ear 

With  such  a  melting  throb  as  thine. 


ACADIE, 


127 


Still  let  thy  rustic,  untaught  muse 

Tune  his  wild  harp  from  every  spray,' 
Mimic  the  notes  the  wild  birds  use, 

Weaving  a  sweet  and  artless  lay : 
And  though  no  grand  applause  l)e  given — 

Though  Fame  no  laurel  wreath  aeeord, 
The  meaning  song  shall  rise  to  Heaven, 

And  Love  shall  bring  her  own  reward. 


I.    The  simple  Bard  rou^^h  at  the  rustic  plough, 

Learning  his  tuneful  trade  from  every  bdugli. — Bums. 


\ 


ifiiflT 


NIY     RIvACE:. 


TO   MV    UKOTllEH. 


Nothing  is  more  beautiful  than  that  men  and  things  should  be  in   their 
places. 


t 

I'F.  in  the  royal  kingdom  of  thy  tliought, 
T*     (Where  dwell  the  eminences  and  degrees, 

And  stately  words,  in  brilliant  embassies, 
With  rich  attire  move  on ;  to  which  are  bronght 
The  wealth  of  realms  where  dark  and  dim  are  not; 

From  which  the  foul  and  indistinct  depart; 

And  where  the  smiling  genii  of  the  heart 
Draw  fairy  circles — haunt  each  secret  spot — 
And  on  Hope's  hill-top,  every  gala-night. 

Kindle  tluMr  sprightly  beacons,  twinkling  high;) 

I  may  have  privilege,  and  friendly  grace; 
Then  let  it  be  where  tire-lit  walls  are  bright, 
On  Autumn  eves; — a  chirping  cricket  nigh, 

While  i)ensive  Silence  broods  around  the  place. 


THE      RETROSPECT. 


A  Poem  read  at  the  Annual  Meetinji;  of  the  Acadia  College  Alumni,  Wolf- 
ville,  Kings  Co.,  Xova  Scotia,  Thursday,  June  3,  1886. 

IfJ  OOL-SIIOD.  eight  swift  elusive  years 
^^^      Have  fled  from  time  and  me, 
Since  fell  upon  my  eager  ears 
Thy  benedicitie. 

Bright  as  of  old  thy  June  day  shines 

On  river,  hill,  and  field ; 
Sweet  as  of  old  thy  trailing  vines 

Their  fragrant  incense  yield. 

Squat,  sturdy  Blomidon  stands  grey. 

Clothed  with  the  sun  and  mist. 
As  when  our  banners  made  a  prey 

His  sea-veined  amethyst.* 

And  Minas,  when  some  Halcyon  day 
Greets  her  with  cloudless  eyes, 


I.  From  the  beautiful  hill  where,  embowered  with  trees,  stand  the  new 
College  buildings,  you  have  a  noble  prospect.  The  green  plain  of  Grand 
I're  is  before  you,  and  the  whitey  sheet  of  tlie  liasin  of  Minas;  while  afar  is 
the  ridge  of  the  North  Mountrun,  terniinatin;^  where  Blomidon  sits  witii  his 
feet  in  the  sea.  It  was  a  resort  of  the  students,  cm  pleasure  days,  who 
sought  geological  specimens,  and  especially  the  much-prized  ametliystine 
stone  mentioned  above. 


:a| 


1 


;i      -ni     nvt     e    1*  5. 


180 


THE  BETE08PECT. 


'';l''!ll!lli''iii 


Is  fair  as  that  famed  Spezziaii  Bay 
Beneath  Italian  skies.* 

Still,  when  her  white  sails  flit  like  birds 

Forth  to  the  Western  main, 
Do  dreaming  eyes,  from  roots  and  surds,' 

Peep  through  the  window-pane. 

And  still,  with  ships  that  skim  her  tide. 

Their  pennons  bright  unfurled. 
The  thoughts  of  bold  hearts  downward  glide. 

The  wild  stream  of  the  world. 

Boys  will  grow  sick  of  cloistered  peace. 

And  life  withojit  life's  passion. 
In  spite  of  Learning's  (jolden  fleece — 

The  gnrment  most  in  fashion. 

For  books  well-thumbed  get  lorn  and  flecked, 
And  blackboards  blankly  stare : — 

'Tis  chiefly  in  tl»e  retrospect 
Those  hours  seem  so  fair. 

The  chalice  of  the  wine  of  youth 

Still  pours  its  living  streams ; 
And  lo!  we  mind  the  olden  truth, 

And  dream  the  early  dreams. 

God  grant  that  when  our  hairs  are  gray, 

When  twilight  blurs  the  page, 
The  music  of  our  dawning  day 

May  charm  our  lonely  age ! 


1.  Nothinij  is   more   common  with  admirers  of  the   scenery  around  the 
Basin  of  Minus  than  a  comparison  of  it  with  that  of  Italy, 

2.  Surds  are  quantities  not  exjjressible  by  rational  numbers.     I  suppose 
some  roots  the  student  got  hold  of  were  not  found  esculent. 


r 


eej-. 


lllrisi^i 


THE  BETROdPEGT. 


131 


Eiglit  years !  it  seems  not  long  ago — 
Comrades  who  walked  with  me — 

Since  last  we  watched  the  Gaspereau 
V\o\\  singing  to  the  sea. 

O  pensive  walks,  when  trees  were  full. 

Under  the  harvest  moon ! 
Long  thoughts  by  river  beautiful 

As  Burns'  ''Bonnie  DoonP''^ 

The  orchards  blossom  white  like  foam, 

The  air  with  nectar  tills; 
Once  more  we  laugh,  and  dream,  and  roam 

In  sunshine  on  the  hills. 

O  rich  in  hope !  O  brave  in  deed ! 

Those  days  are  gonc^  forever ; 
And  yet,  unchanged,  the  blooming  mead 

Smiles  on  its  lisping  river. 

Pilgrims,  Acadia,  to  thy  shrine 

We  bring  our  sacrUice; 
We  snatch,  beneath  thy  sheltering  vine, 

One  hour  of  Paradise. 

And  happy,  over  hill  and  dome 
We  see  the  Spring-light  shine. 

As  when,  in  days  of  hope  at  home. 
We  drank  thy  milk  and  wine. 

And  we  are  glad  if  tlitting  hours. 

That  leave  us  old  and  worn. 
Crown  thy  unwrinkled  face  with  llovvers. 

And  sons:  and  charm  of  morn. 


h 


1.  The  Gaspereau  Hows  down,  at  first  a  wild  tnouiitain-born  stream,  clear 
:iiul  hrii^ht;  then  a  quiet  river  goinjf  leisurely  alonj^  the  valley,  half  hidden  in 
tries,  then  reaching  the  Bay  of  Minas  through  the  dykes  and  meadows  of 
the  sea.    Less  roniuntic  rivers  have  been  the  subject  of  poet's  song. 


'1' 


182 


THE  RETBOSPECT. 


Dumb,  here,  the  world's  too  clamorous  greed ; 

The  Muses  haunt  these  groves; 
Here  pastoral  Virgil  tunes  his  reed, 

And  Horace  sings  his  loves. 

Here  young  hearts  beat  to  Homer's  line, 

With  fancy  flashing  free, 
Jiike  winds  that  laughed  along  the  brine 

Of  his  loud-sounding  sea. 

Here  good  ^]neas  trims  his  sails, 

And  love-lorn  Dido  sighs ; 
Here  mild  Antigone  unveils 

The  light  of  holy  eyes. 

Ah.  maiden  faces,  sweet,  that  glowed 

Alike  on  saint  and  sinner. 
Whene'er  we  took  our  walks  abroad, 

Or — went  our  way  to  dinner ! 

Where  are  you  now? — Remember  you 
Old  days,  old  loves  and  quarrels? 

Time  crowns  om-  poor  bald  pates  with  rue. 
And  school  boys  wear  the  laurels ! 

Here  young  Prometheus  conquers  hate. 

Quells  the  Olympian  rod, 
And  teaches  Trrth  is  lord  of  Fate, 

And  Love  is  lord  of  God. 

Here  Plato  spurns  the  sense-bound  clod. — 

Eyes  rapt  in  stainless  light. 
Enchanted  by  the  Voice  of  God,— 

But  dies  without  the  sight. 

Here  O^dip'is,  by  fate  abhorred, 
Hails  death,  and  wins  release; 


THE  BETROSPECT. 


183 


And.  roscuod  from  th'  Avongor's  sword, 
Orestes  whispers,  *'  I'eace!"' 

O  long  may  Jones  these  pnre  tones  blend, 

Clumting  his  elassie  nme. 
AVitli  Grecian  trnth  and  grace  to  lend. 

Heaven  keep  his  voice  in  tnnel 

Kind  teachers!     Since  we've  slipped   yonr  yoke — 

()i  this  we  may  advise  you — 
The  more  we  know  of  teaching  folk, 

The  njore  we  come  to  prize  you. 

If  once  onr  young  Omnis<'ience  stalked. 

With  lordl}'  strut  and  fuss, 
The  tussle  of  the  world  lias  knocked 

That  nonsense  out  of  us! 

Here,  too,  through  many  a  splendid  maze, 

IJolls  Tiber  to  the  sea, 
Wlieie  iKMisive  scholais  stand  and  gaze 

On  ['I'ufts^j  of  history. 

Here  sits  the  Sphinx.'  who  once  of  yore 

The  'J'hebans  thonght  was  dead  : 
How  many  a  prize-man  sophomore 

This  X  +  V  has  bled  ! 


•I" 

I: 


I.  "Peace!     Peace!     Orestes  like  I  breathe  tliis  jjraver!  " 

—LongJellov.<,  ''Hymn  to  the  Night." 

2.  The  Professor  in  the  department  n.tineil. 

},.  Frank  Iliy^yins,  Professor  of  Mathematics.  He  sliouhl  be  known  in 
order  to  a  full  ajijireciation  of  the  stan/as  applyini^  to  him.  The  author 
writes:  "1  don't  know  as  you  see  the  point  in  the  spliynx  business,  but 
those  who  know  F.  II.  will  understand."'  'S'ls,  I  know  him!  He  is  inatlie- 
niatics  incarnate.  Had  liuclid  or  Lei>endre  never  lived,  he  would  serve 
tor  a  whole  school  of  tiiein.  Matlu'inatics  were  written  in  his  long^, 
straight,  black  locks,  and  in  all  the  angularities  of  his  face. 

17 


184 


THE  RETROSPECT. 


And  grim,  by  Mercy  yet  uiisliriven, 

His  riddlo  yo  must  read  : 
But  in  tlie  Senior  Year.  tlianl\  lieaven ! 

Tlie  Spliinx  will  go  to  seed. 

The  Sphinx  is  lilve  O'Slianter's  witch, 

Aboon  the  Brig  o'  Ayi-;' 
The  Senior  is  a  rnmiing  ditch, 

Which  Sphinxes  do  not  dare.^ 

Kind  Genius  of  tlie  inclined  plane. 
Our  thanks  you  well  deserve ! — 

We've  travelled  many  a  rougher  lane 
rhan  your  Cycloidal  Curve. 

You  ];.  r'  '.!  us  on  the  white  right  line. 

ViK.(\^  '/.('ittlf-s  to  conclusion: — 
We  can't  bt;;ic.'e  twice  four  is  nine, 

In  spite  of  faith's  collusion. 

We've  since  been  asked  to  mould  our  brick 

Without  the  straw  of  leason  ; 
Consistency's  a  heretic, 

And  logic  is  high-treason. 

Sure,  if  to  horior  fact  and  sense. 

And  Pagod  idols  spurn. 
Should  land  us  all  in  Tophet,  whence 

There  is  no  more  return. — 

With  sceptred  chalk,  and  blackboard  great, 
We'll  find  '•  Old  Mathematics," 


1.  The  author  seems  to  have  iynoreil,  for    coiiveiiieiiee  of  rhyme,  the  '  brig' 
over  which  clattered  Meg's  hoofs,  to  the  risk  of  poor  O'Shanter. 

2.  In  the  Senior  Year  there  is  no  mathematics. 


THE  BETBOSPECT. 


135 


By  merit  raised,  the  rpprobiite 
To  tutor  in  Piiemnatics ! 

Who  teaches  Metapliysi<!s  now — 
The  ".stuff"  of  all  our  thotight? 

Our  Doctor'  of  the  serious  brow? — 
We  love  him,  as  we  ou<j;ht. 

O.  brothers  !  thro'  how  many  lands 
We've  souglit  the  Holy  Grail  I 

Lo !  here  is  truth  I     Lo !  there  she  stands  I— 
Bow  down,  and  cry.  "  All  hail!" 

Still  she  looks  on  us.  far  withdrawn, 
With  stars  and  clouds  bi'(li«2^ht; 

The  vision  of  our  hpirit's  dawn, 
The  watch-tire  of  our  night. 

Trust  thy  soul's  hij^hest  vision — trust ! 

Think  not  to  toiich  or  taste  : 
Time's  ancient  mystery— poor  dust  I — 

For  tluic,  will  not  make  liaste.'^ 

The  noble  still  innxt  seek  the  li<^ht ; 

The  Doctrinaire  still  raves; 
But  Faith  holds  fast,  while  the  long  night 

8iiines  o'er  our  fathers'  graves. 

You  that  for  years  this  cosmic  rind 
Have  trod,  or  sailed  its  water. 

Tray  tell  ns  whether  matter's  mind. 
Or  whether  mind  is  matter V 


1.  Dr.  Sawyer,  Principal  of  Acadia  Collctic 

2.  "  The  secret  of  heaven  is  kept  from  ayi-  to  a^^e.  No  imprudent,  no  socia- 
ble anj^el,  ever  dropped  an  early  syllal)le  to  answer  the  l(ini;in^s  of  saints, 
the  fears  of  mortals." — Emerson  oh  "  Srwdenhor^,  or  the  Atystic.'''' 


136 


THE  RETROSPECT. 


And  can  we  know  what  wo  can  know, 
And  know  what  know  we  can't? — 

Yon  that  can  answer,  answer  slow — 
To  follow's  qnite  a  janut. 

The  latest  answer  I  can  tind, 

In  all  this  learned  clatter, 
Isjnst:  '*why,  matter — that  is  mind, 

And  mindV — why,  that  is  matter!' 

Thro'  days  of  slow  and  painfnl  flight 

We've  songht  in  prose  and  son«;. 
What  makes  the  ""  riglitness"  of  the  rij^ht, 

And  lli(!  "  wron<;n(!ss''  of  tin;  wrong. 

Before  friend  Wayland'^  raised  his  face 

To  giv«^  an  tixphuiation. 
Friend  \\  ayland  piisseil  where  sight  takes  place 

Of  I'atiocination. 

Shoidd  the  last  Senior  Class  illume 

This  immemorial  squabble. 
They'll  sav«!  tlio  wise  an  endless  fume 

Of  learned  toil  and  trouble. 

lias  Coldwell'  found  the  fossil  spore. ^ 
Which  made  the  tirst  man-monkey 

On  some  Pleistoceniaii^  shore 

Stretch  upward  towards  the  flunkey  V" 


1.  The  author  writes  in  a  letter:  "The  dojjfg-erel  about  matter  and  mind 
and  ethics  niij^lit  be  fuiuiy  to  one  wlio  was  well-read  in  the  discussions  of 
nictaphvsies  and  ethics  of  these  times;  but  to  the  averag^e  reader  it  would 
mean  nothing  at  all." 

2.  Francis  Waylaiul,  late  president  of  Brown  University,  a  Baptist  Divine, 
author  oi  "JC/e»iifi/s  <>/  Alo/d/  Scictuf,"  etc. 

3.  One  of  the  Acadian  alumni. 

4.  J  la?     If  he  has,  we  may  put  that  new  article  into  our  crceil, 

5.  The  jjeological  term  descriptive  of  the  dejjosits  of  the  newest  division  of 
the  tertiary  formation. 

6.  Putting  the  obsequious  simpleton    for  the  lowest  form  of  manhood. 


THE  RETROSPECT. 


m 


ace 


lul  iniiul 
lsii)ns  ot 
|t  woulil 

Divine, 


/isioii  <it 


Or  when  the  shive  of  bestial  wars 

Before  his  soul  stood  awed, 
First  felt  the  jjflory  of  the  stars, 

And  sang  a  hynui  to  God? 

Who'll  care  when  we  have  reached  the  goal 

Of  manhood  how  we've  all  come? 
If  God  is  God,  and  soul  is  soul, 

Let  dust  be  dust,  and  welcome! 

If  we  are  born  of  baser  forms. 

We  care  not  /toio,  but  vhyf — ' 
Whether  we  travel  to  the  worms. 

Or  city  in  the  sky? 

We'll  ask  if  Uight  is  throned  above, 

Since  in  man's  heart  'tis  writ? 
Whether  the  Soul  of  all  is  Love 

And  Duty — infinite  V'' 

We'll  aim  to  keep  a  pure,  true  heart, — 

In  Honor's  cause  be  brave; 
And  dare  to  (jhoose  the  '"better  part" 

For  Jtoth  sides  of  tin;  grave. 

Truth  conies  in  holy,  earnest  strife  ;•* 
The  Hamlets  dieam  and  «lie  : — ** 

1.  Ah,  the  important  question! — to  wliat   end?     rather  than,  From  what 
bf^inning? 

2.  "God  is  love,"     "  Thy  will  he  done."     "The  Son  of  God  came  not  to 
be  ministered  unto,  but  to  minister," 

i.  Do  his  will — know  the  doctrine. 

4.  "  native  hue  of  resolution 
Is  sicklied  o'er  with  the  pale  cast  of  tliouiiht." 

— j/iimlet.   Act  j,  S,  t. 


w 


lit 


r'4 


« 


188 


THE  UETMOSrECr. 


VVliat  boots  uii  Obcnnaiiirs'  sick  life, 
An  Amur's  weary  cvy't"^ 

'Tis  holy.  oariK'st  living  wills 

Nliall  will  to  Iloaveii  at  loii«^tli : — ' 

Lift  your  oyos  upward  to  the  Jlills 
Whence  coincth  all  your  strength  I 

8uch  lessons  did  thy  stainless  page, 
illustrious  (lauip!^  inspire: — 

O  earnest  hearts  I  ()  grey  heads  sage! 
His  soul  burns  in  your  lire*. 


He  said 


Love  (Jod.  and  do  the  right; 


Truth  wins,  and  lives  for  aye:" 
Walk  in  tlu'  light,  and  trust  the  light, 
As  children  of  the  day." 

When  curious  douI)t  assails  oiu*  need 

Of  simple  faith  and  prayer, 
His  wholesome,  hopeful,  manly  creed 

Shall  save  us  from  tlespair. 

When,  ••  Fear  not,  love  not?"    Stoics  cry: 
'•  The  strong  take  not,  but  give;" 

His  quick,  love-needing  sympath}^ 
Shall  teach  us  how  to  live. 


1.  See  Matthew  Arnold's  poem  of  "  Oherntann."  It  is  the  voice  of  despair 
over  tlie  alleg'ed  death  of  nkl  faitlis — the  inouniful  complaint,  "A  believing 
heart  is  jjone  from  me." 

2.  "O  tliat  I  knew  where  I  mifjiit  find  Him  I"  "  Wiio  by  searching  [p'''- 
losophical  researcli]  can  find  out  Ood?"  Hear  Amiel's  confession:  "  Tlie 
vulture  of  regret  is  ji;nawinjjc  on  my  heart,  and  tlie  sense  ni  irreparable  loss 
chokes  me  like  the  iron  collar  of  the  ])illory.  1  have  failed  in  the  task  of  life, 
and  now  life  itself  is  failintj  me." 

Amiel's  Life  and  Letters  have  just  been  translated  from  the  French.  Hi' 
was  a  scholar  who  thouLfht  and  thoui^lit  away  faith  and  action, 

3.  No  moral  certainty  can  be  <^reater  than  this  :  First,  faith,  then  action— 
energ'y — endeavor,  must  be  the  true  life  of  man. 

4.  Dr.  Cramp  was  for  many  years  President  at  Acadia;  but  during  tlie 
years  of  my  brother's  collegiate  life  he  was  an  emeritus. 


THE  liETIiOSPECr. 


189 


If  his  (loiul  lips  roiild  sponk.  thoyM  say 

What  his  wiiolc  life  assures: — 
'•Our  tlit'orics  may  \n«'I1  tlocay, 

If  wliat  we  do  (>ll(llll'«'S.*' 

Forget  iK»r.  miiistrci.  Ciawloy's  naino,' 
Midst  iiaincs  of  iiol)l('st  wortli : 

Here  livt's  as  tine  a  <>('iitl('inaM 
As  ever  wallied  tlic  cartli. 

Tliou  livost  still,  kind  heart  I— in  need 
Tlie  student's  friend  lon^-while; 

Thou  art  an  Israelite,  indeetl. 
In  wlioin  tliere  is  no  «^uile."^ 

On  thy  rieli  speeeli  the  seliolar  liunj?; 

(jiod's  li<^lit  was  in  tliy  face;; 
Tliou^ht  turned  to  nujsic  on  tliy  tongue, 

And  truth  was  clothed  with  grace. 

Th}'  memory  distils  like  naid 

In  every  student's  hreast:  — 
Truth-lover,  seeker,  scholar-bard, 

In  honor  take  thj'^  rest. 

Kind  friends  I  together  we've  strayed  round 
This  pedagogic  fold ; 


I.  Dr.  Crawley  was  reverend  and  staUly  in  form,  and  of  a  princely  spirit. 
Ik'  was  one  of  those  men  to  whom  Clarendon's  c'hararteri/,atir)n  of  Selden 
will  well  apply : — "A  person  wlu)m  no  character  can  Hatter,  or  transmit  in 
any  expressions  e<iual  to  his  merit  and  virtue."  He  was  ailorned  in  every 
chainher  of  liis  minil  with  |)icturis  and  jewels,  and  his  thmiyhts  clianned  afl 
liearers.  No  man  there  was  more  beloved  ;  there  was  one  voice,  and  that  did 
witness  : 

"  A  kinder  j^entlenian  tri  ads  not  the  eartli." 

— Shaks.  Mtrc/iaiit  of  J'l nice,  Act  2,  S,  S. 

-'.  Jesus  saw  Nathaniel  comintj-  to  him,  and  saith  of  him  :  "  iJehold  an 
Israelite  indeed,  in  whom  there  is  no  guile." — yohn  1:47. 


i  f^, 


II 


140 


THE  liETIiOSPECT. 


;3l. 


'Tis  HWfiot  to  hear  your  voWm's  moiukI 
Fiiinilliir  tis  of  old. 

VVIdo-scjittcrM  ar«»  the  l)im(ls  wliloli  stood 

nt'iicath  tln!  old  i-oof-tn'(S 
Yet  clasji  w(»  hands  in  InotlH'rnood, 

O'er  mount,  and  stream,  and  sea.' 

'J'oo  old  w(''v<»  j^i-own  for  Damon's  n«w, — ' 

The  youthful  lov«'  wv  cherish; 
While  hearts  are  younj;.  and  skies  are  hlue, 

Old  friiMidships  must  not  perish. 

I'd  ^jive  up.  If  I  had  the  choice, 

All  Cicero's  l>i<f  prattle. 
To  hear  old  Douijlas  Simpscurs  voico'' 

IJoar  down  th(»  wordy  hattlc. 

I'd  ^ive.  I'm  sur(\  most  willingly, 

The  host  of  my  old  seruions. 
If  I  my  Archil)ald  might  se(\^ 

Safe  from  those  hloody  Buruuins. 

O  days  I  O  hearts!  when,  with  a  shout. 
Charles  and  his  Cavaliers* 


I.  "Their  graves  are  severed  far  and  wide, 
By  inount,  and  stream,  and  sea." 

— Alfs.  Ilemnns:  '^Graves  of  a  Household." 

3.  Referrinjj  to  the  friendship  of  the  classic  Damon  and  Pythias. 

3.  "Douglas  Simpson  was  a  jollv  fellow  in  the  class  above  me  at  Acadi:i— 
u  Scotcliman,  from  I'rince  Edward's  Island — full  of  jjood  humor  and  fellow- 
shij),  and  a  ready  debater, — always  found  in  the  midst  of  the  lo^:oinachy. 
He  is  now  a  Baptist  preaciier  in  this  country." 

4.  "About  Archibald.  He  was  my  room-mate,  and  class-mate  at  Acadiii 
Collejjfe.  He  is  now  a  missionary  amon^;  tlie  Karens — 1  think;  sent  tluic 
by  the  Foreij4n  Missionary  Board  of  tli»'  Maritime  Provinces." 

5.  Charles  1,  of  iingland. 


Lii 

THE  HETIiOSPECT. 


141 


Wo  clmrjrcd.  and  (jiilckly  put  to  rout 


With  (Icmocratlc  spear 


II 


Poor  Charles  I     Ilow  many  ('oll('<ro  courts 

Have  stretched  ifoii  on  then*  racks  I 
Boy  I'yius  and  (  roinwells.  with  their  warts, 


IIav«!  doomed  you  to  the  axe 


Vi 


Tlielr  kiss  is  on  C'ohuuhia's  l)row — 

'Die  (^ueeidy  \'ir<|;lii  free, 
Tlironed  wliere  Nor'-western  wlieat-liclds  l)Ow 

'I'o  ^re<'t  tlie  Western  sea. 

SouK^  in  tli<>  East  Cainidian  iaiuls 

Ambitious  fortunes  pusli ; 
And  some  liave  saiieti  to  Soutliein  strands, 

And  some  towards  Ilindu-Koosh  : 

VV'liere  winding  Avon,'  faii  St.  .lolm. 

By  town  and  meadow  dally; 
Where  trills  Annapolis  alon*? 

His  apple-scented  valley. 

And  some  by  IJliine^  enchanted  tide 

^^  restlc  in  noble  t()il ; 
With  Teuton  and  with  Celt  divide 

Time's  hon(Mabl(^  spoil.' 


1.  "I  ain  a  rojruc  if  I  were  not  at  hall'-swonl  witli  a  dozen  of  tlu'in  two 
luiiirs  to^'ftlier.  I  have  I'scaped  hy  miracle. .. ,  I  never  tiealt  better  since  I 
was  a  man."-  S/ui/cs.,  Kitti^"  Htury  I  \\  ist  part.  Act  2,  .V,  4. 

2.  School-boy  rhetoric  has  passed  into  a  proverb. 

},.  The  Avon  was  the  river  of  our  home.  From  the  hill-side  we  looked 
down  upon  its  estuary.  Its  Indian  name  is  I'i/.iquid.  Some  sweet  sound- 
ing; verses,  embracinjf  aborij'-inal  names  of  Acadia,  mention  it  thus  : — 

"The  memory  of  the  Red  Man  — it  lingers  like  a  spell, 
On  manv  a  storm-swept  headland,  in  many  a  leafy  dell. 
Where  Tusket's  thousand  islets  like  emrralds  stud  the  deep, 
Where  RUjmidon,  i".  sentry  u'rim.  his  endless  watch  doth  keep: 
It  dwells  round  Catalone's  blue  lake,  'mid  leafy  forests  hid — 
Hound  fair  Discouse,  and  the  rushinjif  tides  f)f  the  turbid  Pi/.iquid." 

4.  Referring'  to  students  who  went  to  (Jerinan  universities. 

18 


T*.  '■ 


148 


THE  RETROSPECT. 


Wo  call  yo'ir  names,  your  yoar.  your  class; 

Y"ot  niccL  we  lioic  no  nioro; 
Or  meet  like  slii|)s  that  hail  and  pass. 

Each  to  a  stranger  shore. 

Hail,  and  faiewell  I  friends  all,  where'er 

Yoin*  various  footsteps  tend! 
We  lift,  with  sinii)le  hearts,  the  prayer, — 

•'God  keep  us  to  the  end!"' 

And  yon,  who  first  beyond  the  veil, 

Weary  with  toil  did  flee. 
From  tliese  dim  shores  we  bid  you  hail, 

Across  the  silent  sea ! 

We  count  you  blessed  with  the  sight 

Of  truths  we  cannot  prove  : — 
Kapt  eyes!  unlllmed.  in  the  clear  light 

Of  the  P:ternal  Love ! 

Your  heavenly  vision  fails  our  mind  ; 

We  sigh,  and  cannot  siuTj; 
Blown  on  before  the  woild's  loud  wind, 

Like  birds  with  wearied  wing. 

And  many  a  shattered  bark  floats  bare. 

O'er  these  waste  waters  wide, 
Where  faith,  o'erburdened  with  despair, 

Has  fallen  down  and  died. 

Heaven  willed  that  you  your  wings  should  spread, 

Fl}'  hence,  and  be  at  rest. 
While  we  the  living  midst  the  dead 

Pursue  with  endless  quest. 

Yet  is  Thy  Name.  O  Lord,  our  guard! 

Thou  dost  each  frail  heart  keep : 
Above  our  night  Thy  stars  keep  ward; 

Beneath — Thy  angel.  Sleep. 


ill 


QASl^KKKAU. 


Lustre  and  ji^racu 
\Vas  o'er  tlic  place, 
The  fairest,  tlu-  scrciicst  cverinorc. 

"Then  he  heheld,  in  a  dream,  onre  more  the  home  of  his  childhriod; 

Green  Acatlian  meadows,  witli  sylvan  rivers  anionii;-  them. 

Village,  anil  mountain,  and  woodlands;  and,  walking  under  their  shadow, 

As  in  the  days  of  lier  youth,  Evangeline  rose  in  his  vision. 

Tears  came  into  his  eyes;  and  as  slowly  he  lifted  his  eyelids, 

Vanished  the  vision  away." — Evangeline. 

I  ¥  I  ITII  (IrcMins  tliat  haunt  tlio  oveiiing  Mrc. 
^^^      While  fields  without  lie  stark  and  chill, 
A'<.d  frantic  winds  the  drifts  whirl  higher, 
That  buttet  doors  and  windows,  still; — 
With  songs,  like  meadowy  bice/es.  borne 

From  places  whore  youn<;  hearts  were  free — 
No  loiif^er  lonidy  or  forlorn — 
My  native  land.  I  come  to  theel 

Is  there  a  place  wheic  all  are  blest, 

And  where  the  ba('!  f<)r<?(>t  to  come. 
'Tis  where  our  Heart's  alVections  rest — 

Our  natal  spot,  our  early  home: 


& 

^HB 

P'' 

B^ 

fe... 

H 

fcj- 

HH 

w'' 

m 

iT'v 

fKm^- 

¥'*'  > 

HSr 

1/ 

«pH 

I.  Some  of  the  stanz-as  of  this  piece  were  written  in  Cambridge,  Mass.,  in 


1S70. 


1 


lU 


OASPEBEA  U. 


How  dear  the  household  song  and  smile ! — 
Ah,  dearer,  left  so  far  behhid! — 

The  cheerful  evening-rest  from  toil, 

When  every  face  seemed  bright  and  kiud! 

My  home!  my  weary  mind's  sweet  rest! 

Spot  by  the  silver-shining  sea! — 
How  hope  beats  gladly  in  my  breast 

While  now  my  thoughts  return  to  thee! 
1  hail  thy  purple  shore,  when  even 

Dusks  o'er  the  blue  and  bounding  main; 
For  gentlest  winds,  of  Fancy  given. 

Will  waft  me  back  to  thee  again: — 

Back  to  the  scenes,  the  friends,  I  knew, 

In  that  sweet  season  of  delight 
When  skies  put  on  a  holier  hue. 

And  suns  arise  with  gladder  light;  — 
Back  to  the  grove  that  crowned  the  hill, 

Where  Music  dwelt  the  livelong  day; 
To  mingled  brede  of  Uower  and  rill. 

And  birds,  of  many  a  tuneful  lay. 

Sweet  spot !  where  Fancy  tirst  awoke 

And  touched,  with  hand  divinely  bold, — 
Transforming  all.  by  nnigic  stroke, 

My  infant  eyes  did  first  behold ! 
Ah,  in  that  glow,  what  joy  was  mine, 

'Neath  morn,  or  midnight's  splendid  sky! 
Heaven  was  a  temple,  earth,  a  shrine, 

And  wind  and  wave  were  melody. 

Spot,  where  I  framed  my  earliest  lays. 
And  breathed  them  on  thine  autumn  gales,- 

My  feet  are  longing  for  thy  braes. 
And  solitude  re(iulres  thy  vales ! 


GA8PEREA  U. 


146 


How  memory  doth  each  scene  restore 
On  wliich  mine  eyes  did  earliest  look, 

And  bids  me  climb  thy  hills  once  more, 
And  gather  pebbles  from  thy  brook ! 

Again  1  traverse  hill  and  heath, 

1  tread  familiar  solitudes. 
And  wander,  rapt  in  dreams,  beneath 

The  glory  of  the  autumn  woods; 
Alone,  by  brook  and  river-side, 

1  linger  out  the  sultry  ray. 
Then  "neath  the  sheltering  roof  abide 

Where  1  was  blest  in  childhood's  day. 

Ye  haunted  shores!     Ye  charmed  glades! 

Y'^e  silvery  lakes,  and  skies  so  blue. 
Where  lived  and  loved  the  Indian  maids. 

And  warriors  of  the  dusky  hue! — 
Where  Micmac'  hunter  chased  the  deer 

That  'neath  your  hoary  branches  tlevv; 
Or  paddled  o'er  the  glittering  mere, 

At  sunset  hour,  his  birch  canoe! 

My  playground  green  !  where  Fancy  sees 

Amid  the  gloam  a  peopled  shade! — 
The  lirelight  flickering  on  the  trees, 

The  lodge  in  leafy  covert  made ! — 
Thy  bowers  are  twined  and  reaie(J  anew, 

Where  many  a  warbler  Hits  and  sings, 
Where  Evening  comes,  with  fall  of  dew. 

And  heaveidy  healing  on  her  wings. 

1.  Or  Mikinak.  Tlic  Miknuiks  arc  a  hi-aiich  of  the  Altfoiuiuiii  fainilv  >)f 
North  American  IiuUaiis,  itiliabitini;  a  portion  of  Lower  Canada,  New  IJruns- 
wiik,  and  Nova  Seotia.  Tlie  Miiinacs  and  Malicites  are  the  priiuipal  triliis 
ill  N.  S.,  and  of  them  there  are  about  i\i^.  They  ari'  an  inonen.--ive,  simple 
peojjle,  to  a  hirjj'e  extent  semi-civilized  and  ehristianizeil,  with  a  literature, 
and  legendary  repertory  of  their  own. 


1  M 


1^ 


' ' '  ■■3  '■ 
■  ^'' '  I ' 

Ili, 

ih  : 

,    ,.  .    . 

■v>,r 


'Wfrr 


146 


QA8PEREAU. 


Again  a  summer  hour  I  spend. 

Throned  on  our  grassy  sunset  hill,* 
And  see  the  golden  orb  descend. 

While  balmy  earth  and  air  are  still: 
O  lov'd  resort !  once  ours,  when  free 

We  held  the  hours  to  rest  or  rove — 
The  hours  most  sweet  to  memory, 

The  scenes  most  sacred  unto  love. 

Pleasant  to  sit,  and  look  below, — 

O'er  twilight  pastures,  stretching  bare. 
O'er  dark'ning  woods — upon  the  glow 

Of  sunset,  on  the  Basin  fair,* 
To  Bloniidon,^  witli  silken  veil 

Of  sea-fog  brooding  o'er  his  form, 
Where  oft  tlie  slow,  incautious  sail. 

Meets  the  swift  angel  of  the  storm ; — ■• 

The  isles,  in  purple  or  in  l)lue. 
That  crouch  along  the  further  shore  ;^ 

And  the  red  bar,**  disclosed  to  view 
By  the  retiring  tide,  once  more; 


1.  The  hill  back  of  my  father's  lioiisc,  coniinanding'  a  wide,  varied  and 
truly  beautiful  prospect, 

2.  Minas  Basin. 

3.  Cape  "  Blow-me-down," — as  the  sailors  term  it,  in  allusion  to  the  sud- 
den winds  that  strike  from  its  summit, — is  a  landmark  made  famous  in  the 
poem  of  Longfellow  : 

"  Away  to  the  northward, 
Blomidon  rose,  and  the  forest  old." 

4.  The  gusty  flaw  from  the  summit  of  Blomidon  sometimes  has  sur- 
prised smaller  craft  becalmed  in  the  neighborhood.  Acadia  College  lamenls 
a  catastrophe  of  the  kiiul,  in  which  a  professor  and  a  number  of  students,  wiio 
had  gone  to  visit  the  headland,  were  ilrowned. 

5.  The  Five  Islands  near  Parrsboro  shore,  Cumberland  Co. 

6.  The  "Flat  Iron,"  as  it  is  sometimes  called,  a  great  muddy  bank  near 
the  entrance  of  the  Avon,  submerged  at  higii  water. 


GA8PEREA  U. 


147 


The  silvery  sails  that  come  and  go 

Upon  the  placid  ialand  sea;* 
The  banks  where  Avon's  waters  tlow. 

The  sheltering?  coves  of  Chevarie  : — * 

'J'heii  just  below,  the  wheat  nnsliorn. 

The  snjooth-niown  tiehl,  the  larches  tall, 
And  the  lov'd  (;ot  where  I  was  born. 

With  dusky  roof  and  whiten'd  wall; — 
The  neighboring  homesteads,  the  wild  vines 

That  clamber  o'er  the  open  dooi*; 
The  orchard  trees,  the  sond)re  jdnes. 

The  blufts  that  overlook  the  shore. 

I  watch  the  Avon  sweep  along 

Beneath  a  tranqiiil  summer  sky. 
Cheer'd  by  each  chanting  wai'bler's  song, 

Blent  with  its  own  wild  lullaby; 
Or  hear  it.  when  the  nortii  wind  raves. 

And  bellowing  tides  of  winter  roar. 
Dash  the  hoarse  music  of  its  waves 

Along  its  dark,  resounding  shore. 

Where  Avon's  waters  onward  flow 

Oft  have  I  passed  the  sununer  day. 
Rapt-listning,  'mid  the  sunset  glow. 

To  one  sweet  minstrel's  moving  lay ; 
As  from  the  hill  1  maiked  her  cot. 

While  iiastening  to  th"  enchanted  shore, — 
'•Lo!  there  she  lives. "^  I  fondly  thought. 

Whom  winds  and  waves  have  taught  their  lore : — 


1.  "  Pk'iisantly  rose  next  tnorn  the  sun  on  tlie  vilhiije  of  Graiul-1're, 

Pleasantly  k1<-''""^'<^'  •"  '^'i^'  "^"ft,  sweet  air  tlie  liasiii  of  Miiias. 
Where  the  ships,  with  their  waveriii^^  shadows,  were  riding-  at  anchor." 

— Longfellozv:  '^^ Evangeline, ^^  Part  i,  S.  iv. 

2.  A  place   in  Hants  Co.,  across  the  estuary  of  the  Avon.      Its  two  points 
of  land  make  out  into  the  Basin. 

,V  Irene  S.  Elder. 


K  vl 


i 

i 

» 

1 

m 

li 

w 


148 


GASPEliEAU. 


'•■"ris  thore  the  tmioful  cliantress  lives. 

And  vvak(!S  with  soii^  t\w.  veniiil  groves, 
And  lier  sweet  tlioiight  luirinonious  gives 

In  service  to  tlie  iiarp  she  loves  I 
Still  may  her  gentle  heart  inspire — 

While  answering  birds  the  iiotes  prolong — 
With  love  the  quick,  ob^jdient  lyre. 

With  thought  refined,  th'  poetic  song. 

Thus,  days  that  were  come  back  again! — 

Thy  scenes  their  wonted  jo}-?  renew; 
My  heart  is  touched  witli  pleasing  pain. 

As  still  they  lighten  on  my  view; — 
Thy  niurnrring  haunts  of  lab'ring  bees, 

Thy  bowery  river's  distant  glow, 
Thy  quiet  walks  *mid  orchard  trees, 

O  happy,  happy  Gasi)ereau ! 

Low  in  the  shelter  of  the  dale 

The  river's  circling  silver  flows, 
And  plats  of  verdant  intervale 

Have  hedges  of  the  wilding  rose  : 
Embowered  in  elms,  my  fancy  sees 

The  roof-tree  of  the  farmhouse  old  ; 
And,  peep'd  from  leafy  apple-trees. 

Bright  spheres  of  red.  and  green,  and  gold. 

I  hear  the  farm-boy's  whistled  tune 

As  slow  he  walks  behind  his  team ; 
1  see  the  kine,  at  sultry  noon. 

Stand  in  the  willow-shaded  stream ; 
And  lingering,  with  fond  delay. 

While  evening  comes,  serenely  still, 
Watch  the  retiring  flame  of  day. 

Through  pines  that  plume  the  western  hill.' 

1.  About  midway  between  Brookliii  and  Wallbrook,  nestled  in  the  pictur- 


GA8PEREA  U. 


148 


The  air  with  wild-flower  scent  is  sweet; 

Antl,  wliere  yon  crystal  waters  glide, 
The  blue- flags  and  the  sedge  repeat 

Their  image  in  the  still}'  tide : 
The  willowy  bridges — ehn-trees  tall, 

The  dripping  mill-wheel,  turning  slow, 
The  wliite  church-spire — I  see  them  all,' 

O  happy,  happy  Gasperean  ! 

O  sweet  Acadian  vale  I  with  thee 

My  earlier,  happier  years  were  passed  ! — ''' 
The  days  of  blest  security. 

The  peaceful  hours,  too  bright  to  last. — 
When  on  thy  hills  I  sang  in  joy. 

And  traced  thy  brook  and  river's  flow : 
Hast  tliou  forgot  tliy  minstrel-boy, 

()  much-loved  vale  of  Gaspereau? 

Oft  ^lemory  on  tlu;  track  rctin'us, 
IJy  which  my  life  the  earliest  came; 

t'sciue  part  <if  the  valley,  is  tlif  'rrcnliolin  farm,  to  which  I  used  to  come.  It 
has  passed  into  strantier  hands  since,  l>iit  then  it  was  the  lionie  of  a  sturdy 
man  whom  all  respected.  The  place  was  so  surrounded  by  hills  anil  trees, 
that  the  shadous  fell  early:  it  was  so  secluded  and  cpdet,  that  1  used  to  com- 
l)are  ittothe  "  I  [appy  \'alley,"  of  Uasselas.  How  often  have  1  dreamed  my 
dream  there,  and  watched  the  sun  ti-oheliind  the  "  western  hill  "  from  which  the 
trees  have  been  shorn  I  How  have  I  lain  awake  at  nijrht,  listeninjj  to  the 
rustle  of  leaves,  and  the  sound  of  the  brook  that  ran  almost  at  the  door.  And 
that  brook!  ah,  when  shall  I  follow  up  such  another! 

I.  These  are  at  the  village,  farther  up  the  valley. 

1.  I  had  some  leisure  for  the  iiululticnce  of  my  roving  aiul  dreaming  pro- 
pensities. Health,  as  well  as  poetic  illusions,  were  pursued  bv  the  brook-sides, 
and  along  this  delightful  river.  Weeks  that  were  spent  at  tlie  Trenholm  and 
Anderson  farms,  and  at  the  farmsteads  of  Avon|)ort,  are  among  the  best  re- 
membered f)f  my  life  When  shall  I  forget  the  moonlit  evenings,  between 
the  Anderson  farm  anil  Cias])ereau  village.''  When,  the  beech-nutting  in  the 
autumn  afternoons?  1  can  see  vet  the  netted  cherry-trees,  where  the  noisy 
robins  contended  for  the  bright,  juicv  sjioil  ;  and  the  ladder  that  tempted  my 
feet  to  climb  among  the  laden  boughs  I  I  can  see  the  meadow,  rich  in  grass 
and  grain;  and  the  river-course,  marked  by  the  thick-clustering  trees,  that 
give  but  glimpses  of  its  waters  here  and  there. 

10 


'   m 


r 


H 


U(i.4 


ISO 


GA8PEBEA  U. 


And  F.'incy  many  a  sconp  discorns, 
And  lists  to  many  a  magic  name : 

Tiien  do  thy  woods  and  streams  appear. 
With  patlis  my  wandering  feet  did  know, 

And  all  thy  musie  meets  my  ear. 
O  winding  vale  of  Gaspereau  ! 

How  oft,  from  yon  hill's  dark'ning  brow* 

Where  twiuklos  first  the  evening  star, 
I've  watehed  the  village  windows  glow 

At  sundown  in  thf  vale  afar; 
Or.  from  the  shadowy  bridge  leaned  o'er 

The  river's  glinjmering  darks  below. '^ — 
Breathed  freshness  of  the  sylvan  shore. 

And  heard  the  songs  of  long  ago  I 

'Twas  here,  of  old.  a  people  dwelt,^ 

Wliose  loves  and  woes  the  Poet  sings ;'' 
The  beauty  of  thes«;  scenes  they  felt. 

When,  'mid  the  golden  evenings. 
They  set  the  willows,  lush  and  green; 

Now  gnarled  in  their  fantastic  age. 
Thfit,  with  their  blacken'd.  broken  mien, 

Still  stand — the  blackbird's  hermitage. 

Secluded  in  this  calm  retreat. 
They  tilled  the  soil,  and  reared  the  home; 


1.  One  of  the  hills,  from  which  a  view  of  the  valley  can  he  had,  which 
divides  the  villajre  of  Gaspereau  from  that  of  Wolfville.  Oft,  from  my  scat 
jinder  a  clump  of  willows,  I  have  watclied  the  fadinjr  of  the  "  lij^'hts  ol  eve," 
and  followed  with  my  eye  the  course  of  the  river  down  the  valley. 

2.  At  the  village,  just  below  the  mill,  the  river  divides  into  tw<)  streams 
that  )5^o  on  in  shallow  sprawlinjj  currents  around  a  little  willowy  island.  Two 
bridjjes  cross  these  branches  of  the  river,  almost  embowered  by  the  trees  that 
stof)p  over  them.  The  spot  is  very  picturesque,  and  I  loved  to  linger  here, 
especially  at  even  in  j^. 

3.  The  French  Acadians. 

4.  Vide  Longfellow's  "  Evangeline.'''' 


GASPEREA  U. 


151 


Nor  dre.'iniod  to  an  abode  so  sweet 
The  lordly  spoiler  e'er  could  eoine  : 

For  them  the  corn,  green-waving,  grew, 
Studded  with  many  a  yellowing  gem; 

Round  them  the  doves  and  swallows  flew. 
And  coo'd  and  twitter'd  love  tor  them. 


But  now  I  hear  from  wood  and  dell 

Kinging,  the  Saxon's  sturdier  strain — 
From  VVallbrook,  and  from  Blackburn  fell. 

And  over  Grand-Pre's  storied  plain;' 
Where  once,  to  sweeten  silence,  rose 

The  lyric  notes  the}'  loved  to  hear. 
At  traiuiuil  evening's  golden  close. 

Or  when  the  morn  was  shining  clear. 


Woe  fell  on  you,  ye  genial  race — 
Ye  exiled  sons  of  lily  France  ! 

This  is  no  more  your  dwelling  place, — 
Ye  live  in  music  and  romance  : 

But  oft.  as  purple  eventide 

liathes  all  these  hills  in  lire  and  dew, 


I.  The  Grand-Pre  |  Graiid-l'c-raV)  <>r  prairie;  ])r(>n()iiiiced  by  the  country  folk 
"(jraii'peroe,"]  is  a  lar^e  dyke  meadow,  comprising  some  i  loo  acres,  and  lies 
helweeii  Lower  llorton  and  Long  Island,  'i'liis  rich  dyke  was  redeemed 
from  the  sea  by  the  Frencii  Acadians.     Longfellow  alludes  to  it : 

"V'ast  meadows  stretched  to  tiie  eastward, 
Giving  the  village  its  name,  anil  i)asliire  to  flocks  uitiiout  number. 
Dikes,  tliat  the  hand  of  tlie  farmer  had  raised  with  labor  incessant. 
Shut  out  the  turbulent  titles;  but  at  stateil  seasons  the  tlood-gates 
Opened,  anil  welcometi  tlie  sea  to  wander  at  will  o'er  tlie  meadows. 
West  and  south  there  werelieliis  of  (lax,  and  orchards,  and  cornfields 
Spreading  afar  and  unfenced  o'er  tiie  plain." 

Land  is  owned  not  only  by  farmers  in  tiie  immediate  locality,  but  by  those 
who  live  eiglit  or  ten  miles  distant.  Alter  the  upland  haying  was  done,  1  can 
rciuember  how  the  men  of  our  village  would  bring  Iiome  their  liigh-built 
loads  from  the  (irand-Pre.  Later  in  the  season  the  green  phiin  woukl  be 
dotted  with  cattle  and  horses,  ])ut  there  to  crop  the  fall  feed.  On  the  morn- 
ing after  the  breaking  of  the  dykes,  in  a  heavy  October  gale,  1  remember  to 
have  seen  them  standing  in  forlorn  groujison  mounds  of  the  shattered  dykes, 
or  wherever  they  could  tind  place  out  of  the  water. 


i':i  ; 


152 


OASPEREAU. 


yome  wjuuleror  by  the  liverside 
SliuU  drop  u  tour,  and  dreum  of  you. 

The  vale  still  rings  with  childliood's  song, 

Amid  its  yellowing  sea  of  llowers, 
Willie  days  of  sunnn(;r  glide  along, 

On  wings  of  light,  thro'  all  your  bowers: 
Here  are  the  trees'  ye  planted,  here 

The  remnants  of  y<mr  broken  homes; 
But  to  old  graves,  from  year  to  year, 

No  gliostly  mourner  ever  comes. 

But  see  !  my  lire  burns  low  ;  ujy  room 

VVitli  lliekcring  beams  has  grown  less  bright; 
And  loudly,  through  the  snowy  gloom, 

1  hear  the  storm-wind's  sounding  flight; 
Yet  doth  my  In^art  a  strain  repeat, 

Of  thee,  my  lov'd.  \\\y  eaily  home! — 
"To  make  remembered  sorrow  sweet. 

And  lighten  every'eare  to  eome  !""^ 


1.  The  mossy  stumps  of  trees  that,  in  their  leafy  prime,  may  have  witnessed 
such  scenes  as  the  poet  has  recorded  : — 

"Under  the  open  sky,  in  the  odorous  air  of  the  fuxliard, 

Bendinji^  with  j^olden  fruit,  was  spread  the  feast  of  betrothal. 

There  in  tlie  sliade  of  the  porcii  were  tlie  ])riest  and  the  notary  seated; 

There  good  Benedict  sat,  and  sturdy  Basil  the  blacksmith, 

!Not  far  withdrawn  from  these,  by  the  cider-press  and  the  beehives, 

Michael  the  fiddler  was  placed,  with  the  gayest  of  hearts  and  of  waistcoats. 

Shadow  and  light  from  the  leaves  alternately  played  on  his  snow -white 

Hair,  as  it  waved  in  the  wind;  and  the  jolly  iace  of  the  fiddler 

Glowed  like  a  living  coal  when  the  ashes  are  lilown  from  their  embers. 

Gaily  the  old  man  sang  to  the  vibrant  sound  of  his  fiddle. 

Tons  les  Bourgeois  de  Chartres,  and  Le  Carillon  de  Dtitikerqiie, 

And  anon  with  his  wooden  shoes  bi'at  time  to  the  music. 

Merrily,  merrily  whirled  the  wiieels  of  the  dizzving  dances 

Under  the  orchard  trees  and  down  the  path  to  the  meadows ; 

Old  folk  and  young  together,  and  chilciren  mingled  among  them." 

— Evangeline,  Part  i,  Sec.  iv. 

Until  recently,  remnants  of  the  Acadian  orchards  were  discoverable  at 
Grand-Pre.  Old  cellars  may  yet  be  pointed  outliere  and  there,  and  some  old 
relic  will  be  occasionally  turned  up  by  the  plough. 

2.  John  McPherson.    ^^  Pleadings  for  Return." 


0A8PEBEA  U. 


108 


Fade  froir.  my  thoii^lils,  sweet  vale !  again 

Let  lue  dissolve  the  pleasing  spell: 
But  all,  the  ettbit  is  in  vain  I — 

With  thee  my  tenderest  thought  must  dwell! 
Yet,  in  such  tranquil  ujemories  blest, 

Stilled  be  eaeh  voice  of  vain  desire; 
Enough,  these  days  of  toll  aiul  rest. 

Enough,  tlie  poet's  earnest  lire! 

I  will  not  say  the  word,  "  Farewell," 

Nor  call  my  musing  thought  from  thee; 
For  'mid  thy  bowers  some  hearts  may  dwell 

That  have  not  yet  forgotten  me: 
Each  wind  that  sweeps  tlK!  rongh'nlng  sea — 

That  Hies  tlie  way  I  wish  to  go — 
Wafts  my  fond  fancy  swift  to  thee, 

O  lovely  vale  of  (Jaspereau  ! 


<^>^ 


®il!' 

W'"' 


AN    INTERLUDE. 


1*2     M1NSTR?:L  pausing,  lit  the  day's  bright  closing, 
^■^    Where  Jirt  and  music  hud  arrayed  their  trophies, 
Laid  down  his  pen.  and  sought  the  western  window, 
Bright'ning  his  face  in  the  sun's  parting  glory; 
Till,  turning  from  that  home  of  twilight  si)l«-'ndor. 
He  hailed  the  coming  of  a  stately  woman, 
Whose  name  was  like  a  strain  of  household  music, 
Whose  form  was  loveliness,  whose  face  was  sweetness, - 
Who  was  the  mistress  of  the  minstrel's  dwelling. 

O  bride,  in  bygone  days! — O  wif<',  and  mother! — 
O  babe,  that  circled  by  white  arm.  now  smilest! 
For  you  the  well-strung  harp  resounds,  and  ever 
Your  coming  stirs  in  him  the  soul  of  music; 
To  you  he  turns,  with  lighted  face,  sweet  beaming! 
For  you  I  hear  your  happy  niinstrid  singing! 


0  welcome  is  the  moment 
When,  iiew-releasecl  from  care, 

1  watch  the  low-descelKlin^^  sun 
That  ^oldens  all  the  air! 

O  hapiiy  is  the  evening', 

If  dark  or  bright  it  be, 
That  sees  the  hours  of  labor  close, 

And  brings  my  love  to  me  J 


AN  INTERLUDE. 


155 


Come  mar,  my  «)\vn,  my  (tarlinjf ! 

That  I  tliy  faci-  may  si'i-, 
And  tiiim'  my  sotur-Miiti'il  thmijjlit 

Willi  thy  smili-  nl'  sun^liinc  tVi'i- : 
To  nil'  tlmn'rt  fair  as  llic  dau  iiiiivCi 

And  s\\  i'»t  as  tlir  swi-i't  (U'W-lall ; 
Tliou  art  Ifal  and  tnii'  to  tliv  cIkisch  few, 

TIkhi  art  frank  and  kind  to  all. 

I  mind  mr  well,  my  darling  I 

VVIrmi  liivf  tirst  brratlicd  tliv  name, 
Till'  Mnsli,  than  sprtch  mori'  cl<>(|uL'nt, 

'That  in  livini^  answer  came  : 
'Twas  a  path  ohsem-e  and  Inwiy 

'I'hou  knewest  mine  must  tie; 
Hut  I  l>Uss  kind  heaven,  whose  love  hath  >;iveii 

Oni-  lot  to  thee  and  me  ! 

'Tis  a  dreaniv  life,  my  darling'! 

That  thou  fiast  eoine  t'>  share  : 
Do  the  dee|)s  aiul  dells  of  l-'airylaiid 

Seem  for  thee  too  taint  and  rare? 
Vet,  with  all  of  iieaven-lxirn  music. 

And  of  whitest  poesie, 
Life's  crowning-  bliss  my  heart  mi^'ht  hums 

If  it  were  not  for  thee  ! 


Alul  whose  aro  thofjc.  whose  mii-tli  siispeii(]s  the  iiitisic? 

I  liear  your  shouts.  I  see  your  bi fi^ht  eyes  spaikU;, 

O  liappy  ehildreii  I  from  tht;  tmf  fresh  iKxmtlhi;:^ 

Into  that  shrhjc  whose  ^odtUvss  is  a  mother; 

O  f(iarh;ss  ehihh'en  !  awed  not  from  your  ehimor,, 

Pause  ye  before  that  guardian  aiigel — motlier! 

O  dimpling  daughter!  foldetj  rose,  tliat  liangest 

Upon  her  arm.  wlio  is  ti  rose  white-blooming! 

O  boy  exuberant,  warm,  in  joy  abounding, 

C'lu'bing  thy  leaping  glee,  thy  mirthfid  clamor, — 

For  you  I  h;;ar  your  happy  minstrel  singing! 


And  who  are  these,  my  darliiijj! 

That  round  thee  closely  clin^-. 
As  round  some  pearlv-crested  rose 

The  beauty  butls  of  Spritij-  ? 
Our  hearts  leap  hiyli  with  rapture 

As  our  babe  lea]>s  in  his  joy; 
And  a  pure  delujlit  is  our  lassie  bri^-lit. 

And  our  lauj^nter-lovin^^  boy! 


I- 1 


•  .■>.■ 


HI 

mi 

W\ 

m 

Sc .'  \  . 

mi''',  z 

H; 

i"' 

pit 

n^ ' 

i-  ' 

WA 

..,..^.  - 

lli  i  > 

H 

:l'-' 

ill 

■ 

m 


156 


AN  INTERLUDE. 


So,  beautiful,  my  diirlinj^! 

Our  lowly  life's  (k-cliiiu; 
And  softly,  round  our  partiujj^  hour, 

The  lights  of  evening  shine  : 
One  life,  with  faith  unbroken, 

One  love,  from  falsehood  free ; 
And,  by  God's  ijrace,  in  a  holier  place, 

One  Heaven  for  thee  and  me. 


! 


Tlnshcd  was  the  song,  the  qinv(M-in<?  chord?,  vvere  silent; 

The  sunset  skies  were  llusliin<^  now  but  fauitly, 

The  evening  star  jxcpM  at  tlieni  through  tiie  window, — 

Time,  now,  of  nested  bii'ds  and  eradled  cliildren; 

But  still  they  lingered,  as  a  spell  had  bound  them, 

Still  sat  thc^y.  in  a  lit  of  gentle  musing, 

Silent — but  with  their  eyes  they  bless'd  each  other: 

No  words  express  tlieir  comfort  in  each  other,, 

No  fond  endearments,  and  no  vv:irm  caresses 

Avail  to  make  their  mutual  compact  firmer; — 

Their  blissfid  troth,  their  union  is  eternal: 

Their  eyes  alone  bespeak  their  hearts'  thanksgiving 

For  perfect  joy.  for  certain  trust  and  treasuie, 

Which — marred  below — beyond  all  fearful  passion. 

And  failing  rapture,  is  enjoyed  foraver. 


3/Loods  and  Tautasies. 


ADUMA. 


There  Iiath  passed  a  fjlory  from  the  earth — Wordsworth. 


It 


ll"T  of  my  ear  a  song  has  died. 
And  from  my  sight  a  glory  tied ; 
There  is  a  gulf,  unknown  and  wide, 
Between  tlie  living  and  the  dead ; 
And  bird  and  leaf 
Partake  my  grief, 
And  share  my  constant  sorrow; 
The  brook  eomplains 
In  plaintive  strains. 
And  from  my  heart  the  passing  wind  doth  dying 
sweetness  borrow. 

Yet  not  forever  hushed  the  song. 
Nor  silent  she  who  used  to  sing; 

For  Fancy  pours  the  strain  along, 
And  Memory  knits  the  broken  string; 
20 


;fe; 


il: 


158 


ADUMA. 


And  moon  and  star 
Bright  boacoiis  an^ 
Upon  that  isl(^  of  dieaiuiii<^. 
Where  i  behohl 
Tlie  matcliless  mould — 
The  perfect  beauty  that  she  wore — her  face  with 
ghiduess  beaniing. 

She  grow  so  meek,  and  pale,  aud  pure, 
I  feared  that  she  might  find  lier  way 
Through  the  elysian  atmosphere. 
Up  to  eternal  summer  day; 
So  wheu  we  strayed, 
By  field  or  glade, 
TJke  idle  fauns  a-roaming. 
Her  hand  1  grasped. 
And  tiglitly  clasped. 
And  thought  the  zephyr-rustled  leaves  were  shadowy 
angels  coming! 

They  bore  her  up  tlie  shining  way — 
I  heard  the  echo  of  their  singing — 
Above  tiie  trees — the  shadows  gray — 
Their  arms  about  hei-  closely  clinging; — 
Tip  by  the  stream 
Of  the  moonbeam. 
Through  glittering  gates  of  even. 
'I'hree  shapes  of  air 
Did  her  upbear. 
And  over  hills  of  cloudy  light  did  carry  her  to  heavci.I 

The  shelvy  bank,  the  flowery  brae. 

Are  vacant,  now  that  she  has  gone ; 
And  the  bright,  beauty-breathing  day, 

Without  her  life,  comes  moving  on  : 


ADUMA. 


159 


The  whirriiij;:  scythe, 
With  motion  blithe, 
Is  heard  'inoii^  fulling  •grasses; 
And  every  breeze 
That  smites  the  trees, 
Brinijs  iiioiirnt'iil  music  of  her  voice  unto  me  as 


it  passes. 


m. 


}'. 


/" 


■\ 


>i    9 


w 


ii 


A    KANTASY. 

|>^RONE  oil  a  mossy  hank  in  laii<^nor  lying, 

**■       'iVlid  the  suii-beatoii  i)()rcli  o"  the  afternoon, 
List'ning  a  faniish'd  rillet's  lessenhig  tnn<!, 
And  the  chirk,  jach'cl  fir-tree's  faintest  sighing; — 

To  lialf-closed  eyes  some  wandering  beams  came  prying, 
And  i)eered  throngii  hraneiu^s — streamed  tiieirgold  across 
Drowsed  brain  and  stilly  eyelids,  with  the  lloss 
Of  locks  ilhmn'nate; — when  savv  I  Hying 

Swift  wings,  like  (inivering  seraphim,  (juiek  plying 
Under  a  triple  ar<'h  of  rainbows — end 
Of  a  long  bridge  of  light;  and  finest  hints 
Of  song — a  tiny  .eriai  mnsli- — dying. 

And  rising  yet  again,  they  secnu'd  to  send, — 
While  close  beside  me  rose  the  Fairy  Prince  I 


XALKINQ    BY    THE    SEA. 

I  t  I  E  wjilked  down  to  the  imirinurous  sea  one  night- 

^^      1,  and  a  l)rotliei'  nuich  bt'lov(Hl.     'Twas  in 

The  earliest  blusli  of  tlie  autumnal  moon, 

Xow  risen  to  light  our  footsteps  on.     Ftdl  oft, 

Aforetime,  had  we  paced  that  pebbliHl  beac^h 

"Neath  the  same  full-orb"d  moon;  and  list'ning  there 

To  the  strange  ceaseless  music  ot  the  waves, 

Were  wont  to  give  a  sym[)athetic  piny 

To  our  fidl  souls,  discoursing,  now  and  then. 

Of  life — this  brief  and  litful  interlude 

Of  the  Eternal  lieing;  of  passionat(^  love — 

Inexorable  hate — that  minister 

Tlieir  motion  to  the  progress  of  tlie  world, — 

Striking  with  powerful  liands  tlie  wondrous  soul 

Into  deep  harmonies,  anil  discords  wild. 

Which  jar  the  universe. 

And,  building,  oftentimes, 

Fair  castles  of  young  hope— pictures  that  gleamed 

About  the  calm  horizon  of  our  life. 

In  goigeous  setting — so  we  drank  deep  draughts 

Of  life's  exhilarating  cui),  and  oped 

Our  hearts  to  the  full  tide  of  Nature's  song. 

And  Poesy's. 


li'i 


162 


TALKING  BY  THE  SEA. 


There  vvjis  a  ciive  near  by 
The  water's  edge,  whose  sides  and  low-hung  roof 
Of  yielding  slati^stone,  bore  the  freqnent  marks 
Of  boyish  impress; — snatches  of  old  songs, 
And  words  of  half-remembered  melodies, 
And  favorit<'  aphorisms  of  authors  eonned 
In  the  hnsh'd  early  morning-tide  that  sleeps 
In  the  dim  background  of  all  noble  lives. 
And  brooded  o'er  by  holiest  memories. 
We  took  our  seats  upon  an  ancient  stone. 
And  looked  onue  more  upon  the  moonlit  waves. 

At  length  I  broke  the  silence : 

•'  Vou  recall 
The  last  time  we  w(M'e  here — ten  years  ago — 
One  cool  .Sepr(»inl)er  eve.     The  harvest  moon 
In  her  full  glory,  swept  the  gloomy  sides 
Of  this  old  cav(^  with  amber  streams  of  light. 
And  on  the  molten  mirror  of  the  sea 
Left-  lines  of  tremulous  splendor. 

••  And  we  saw 
Move  on  across  this  bright'ning  track  tin?  ships, 
■>\  hite-vving'd,  and  disappear  like  ghosts  beyond. 
I  saw  your  soul  traiistiguied  in  yoiu"  face. 
Deep-luminous,  and  like  the  sparkling  sea 
Reflecting  stars.    Then  I  repeated  low 
The  liaureate's  sweet  fragment — ••  Break,  break,  break'.' 
And  so  you  took  your  peucil  and  com|)osed 
One  of  your  own.     ('ould  you  recite  it  now. 
As  then  you  wrote  itV" 


Thinking  a  brief  space, 
e  who  meets  again 
A  long  lost  child,  and  welcomes  it  with  joy. 


He  gave  the  lines  like  one  who  meets  again 


TALKING  BY  THE  SEA. 


Waves  opaline  of  life's  unsluinbering  sea, 

In  yrantl  i)crpetual  roll  I — 
Murinurin>>:ly  moan  your  many  voices — 
The  nuisie  of  the  sonl : — 

A  deep,  sad  undertone  of  human  hearts, 

With  fitful  strains  of  fears, 
And  wildly-elashin^  discords — voices  sweepinjif 

Forth  out  of  our  j)ast  years. 

But  there  are  islands  shrined  in  holy  peace, 

And  hreathintr  swietest  halm  ; 
And  rocky  caverns,  echoing,  or  liusheil  silent 

In  an  eternal  calm. 

The  winds  above  the  seas  that  rave  and  roar, 

Seek  not  the  depths  below  ; 
Those  isles  no  tidal  wave  of  passion  vexes, 

With  sohbinLf  ebb  and  flow. 

Waves  opaline  of  life's  unslumberin^  sea, 

In  ji^'rand  perjietual  roll! — 
Softly  fall,  to-niiiht,  your  sweet-toned  voices — 

The  music  of  my  soul ! 


168 


■f'l- 


"Driftwood.*'  lio  said;    "-oiicc  moiv  liath  Memory's  waves 

Stranded  thee  on  tli(^  island  of  my  tlioni^litl 

Brother,  we  all  aie  poets  in  onr  yonth. 

Of  high  or  low  degrci' :  bnt  I  have  lived 

So  niueh  in  deed  and  deep  exp(;rience 

Since  then,  that  all  my  sphcics  of  high  ideal 

That  once  rang  music  in  their  daily  march, 

Are  faded  into  globes  of  (•onimon  clay. 

My  Memnon  statue  now  no  more  gives  sound, 

Struck  by  the  first  rays  of  the  risen  sun ; 

And  I  have  heard  so  loud  the  thunderous  eartli 

Shake,  stricken  in  her  orbit,  that  my  ears 

Are  deafen'd  to  the  nnisic  of  the  stars, 

That  1  once  heard  in  dreams,  *         *         ♦         * 


1    ! 


mil 


i 


i 


IL 


ON     LAKE    WaNNKF'ISAUKEE:. 

t  ~ 

T  MISSED  and  tloatod  on  tlie  Lake 

y     Called  the  Great  Spirit's  Smile, 

Lingering  l)y  many  a  grassy  shore, 

And  many  a  wave-washed  isle. 

Charmed  on  its  shining  bosom  lay 

Floating  some  tlowery  stars, — 
Love,  Hope,  and  Innocence,  all  writ 

In  holj'^  characters. 

Deep,  green  below  tlie  limpid  wave, 

Their  slendei*  stalks  I  traced; 
But  soft  airs  kissed  their  beauteous  blooms, 

And  golden  beams  embraced. 

And,  midway  down  the  watery  way, 

Embathed  in  crystal  light. 
An  upward-reaching  stalk  appeared. 

With  opening  bud.  in  sight. 

Fair  lake!  and  dear  delightful  flowers! 

Ye  silver  swells  that  roll! 
Ye  bear  a  meaning  to  my  mind, 

A  message  to  mj'^  soul. 


ON  LAKE   WINNEPISA  UKEE. 


165 


VVhut  hopes  there  are,  th.at  in  the  <leeps 
Of  stru^<5ling  spirits  grow ! — 

'J'o  their  fiiltllhneiit  they  outreach 
From  shadowy  pools  below. 

But  while  we  pray,  and  while  we  strive, 
Tliey  grow,  and  grow  tlu^  more; 

And  yet  shall  open  into  bloom 
Life's  shining  waters  o'er. 

Ah !  now  the  forming  bud  we  see — 

The  purpose  incomplete; 
And  feel  that,  for  the  ripem'ng  time, 

We  wish  the  hours  more  fleet. 

But  in  the  Master's  perfect  time 

The  perfect  good  shall  be, 
All  radiant  as  tliese  virgin  stars 

On  this  sweet  iidand  gca. 


I"  I 
I 


,^^^-^- 


i4i 


.  ! 


21 


ii';: 


THK    HI  1^1..' 


\ 


"  Tliou  reineniberest 
In  those  old  diiys." 

— MOKTE    D'AUTHUH. 


CAME  to  tlie  hill  at  moriiiii«?. 
Ere  the  sun  was  in  the  sky ; 
The  light  wind  Ivissed  nie  on  the  cheek. 

As  it  went  Hitting  by; 
Tlie  grass  was  emerald  'neath  my  feet; 

Tlie  East  was  a  ruddy  thnne ; 
And  the  brown  hare  tied,  as  a  phantom  fleet. 
Across  uiy  path,  as  I  came 

I  came  to  the  hill  at  morning, 
J  stood  and  looked  below. 

I,     The  buriiil-yiird  in  my  native  viUajre  was  a  retired    place — a  nook  quiet 
and  secluded,  somewhat  removeil  from  the  public  way.     It  was 

"  A  ^;entle  Jiili, 
Green,  and  of  mild  declivity," 

terminating'  abruptly  in  a  slate-pit,  oti  one  side;  beyond  which  a  brook  purled 
along  its  bed  of  gravel.  Skirting  the  edge  of  this  descent,  which  formed  the 
eastern  boundary  of  the  yanl,  were  soinc^  fine  beech  ami  maple  trees,  inter- 
mingled with  evergreens,  against  the  dark  of  which  the  "  mournful  marbles" 
were  seen  distinctly  from  tlu'  road.  When  there  last,  I  foimd  the  place 
much  clogged  with  undergrowth,  and  the  rambling  i)icket  fence  broken,  in 
places.  It  was  a  frecjuent  resort,  on  summer  Sabbath  afternoons  of  mv  hoy- 
hood.     My  brother  and   I   often   went  there.     It  is  much  neglected  of  l;ite, 

"  A  favorite  btnmdary  to  our  lengthened  walks 
This  churchyard  was." 

"  Something  ails  it  now;  the  spot  is  cursed." 


I* 


THE  HILL. 


167 


And  siiw  tlu'  silver-wiiuliiig  strciain 

Aloiifj  tlio  valley  flow; 
I  fuw  tlio  villa>;<'  windows  lir«» 

With  flames  of  the  iiiddy  sun. 
Throii<;h  a  <>'old(!n  future,  coining  nigher. 

And  a  yrlorions  life;  begnn  I 


n1 


ITHUK. 


nooH 


So  upon  the  hill,  that  niornin 

1  watched  the  dayspring  gleam. 
And  list<'ned  to  the  singing  birds. 

And  tlie  mminur  of  the  streanj; 
The  sa[>i)hii"(^  sky  smiliid  overhead; 

The  very  graves  looked  gay;' 
And  who  would  dream  of  sorrow  and  shade 

At  the  early  dawn  of  day  V 

Alas  !  if  the  heart  grows  bitter. 

When  it  flnds  its  dreams  are  vain. 
When  its  prophecies  are  shown  to  be 

Hut  fruits  of  an  idle  brain  I — 
Alas!  wIkmi  i\w  light  shall  fadeaway. 

And  the  cherished  hope  shall  die, — 
When  the  gold  of  the  (thjud  has  changed  to  grey 

In  the  overhanging  sky  I 

1  came  to  the  hill  at  morning. 

When  th(?  yellow  leaves  were  there; 
The  frosts  had  (\y^(\  th(;  beechen  sluule. 

And  the  maples  rustled  bare : 
Old  hope<  were  }>arted,  then,  and  gone, 

With  the  last  year's  faded  flowers; 
And  the  colors  all  that  n>y  thoughts  put  on 

Were  as  autumn's  sober  bt)wers. 


'■  ■.  ( 


i">\\ 


I.  "The  very  graves  appeur'd  to  smile, 
So  fresh  they  rose  in  sluidowM  swells." 

Tknnvson  : — "  2Vie  Letters." 


y'S 


^ 


THE  HILL. 


But,  upon  the  hill,  that  inorniiig, 

I  thought.  111  lllillllKM'  of  IIKUl, 

'^Tlic  Sim  shone  hii^htly  ycstcM'duy, 

And  tJH'  sun  will  shine  ji^iiin; — 
The  viinislied  gleam  shall  hieak.  ore  long, 

From  the  gates  of  the  misty  Past; 
And  tli«  pliantoms,  sweet,  of  Fancy  and  Song 

Will  he  with  me,  at  the  last." 

I  stood  on  the  liill  at  evening, 

When  tlie  hreath  of  heaven  was  keen; 
Tlie  moon  liiiiig  in  the  hollow  sl<y. 

And  not  a  (doiid  was  seen; 
And  the  snow  lay  ghostly  on  the  firs 

That,  as  winds  of  night  would  hlovv, 
Nodded  their  dark  tops  to  tlie  stars, 

And  tlie  dead  that  lay  below. 

But  the  dreams  had  tlown  forever — 

The  dreams  that  were  onee  my  own  ! 
My  heart  was  disinchanted  then, 

And  the  real  lived  alone ; 
The  future  looked  not  as  it  did 

In  the  light  of  tlie  morning-tlame. 
For  the  path  beneath  my  feet  tlien  led 

To  work,  and  not  to  fame. 

The  olden  gathers  round  me. 

With  its  dim,  familiar  look; 
It  comes  like  the  wind  that  rustles  through 

The  alders  by  the  brook ; 
And  the  moon  shines  on  the  white  hillside, 

And  the  spring  morns  brealc  the  same; 
But  the  boy  comes  not  in  his  hope  and  pride, 

'Mid  tlie  light  of  tlie  morning  flame. 


THE     MAIDKN    KVK. 


|IIE  nijii(l(Mi-Kve  is  a  bride  to-nij?lit. 
And  lier  brow  is  bound  with  a  circlet  bright, 
And  her  robe  of  blue,  in  ev<ny  fold, 
Is  sprinkled  and  starred  with  dust  of  gold. 

And  I  at  the  holy  altar  stand. 
And  hold,  sweet  Marj',  thy  lily-white  hand; 
Fair  is  thy  face,  and  thine  eye  is  bright, 
And  thou,  meek  maid,  art  a  bride  to-night! 


m 


if, 

I 


II I    'I 


I   jip!'!'''!!"^ 


Q 


HEAI^TS. 


Ml'l  thero  wlio  coldly  love? — 
Who,  without  wiinnth  or  toars. 
Through  homeless  reulius  of  fancy  move. 

Changed  with  the  chaii^ii)<^  years? — 
Souls  without  strength  or  constancy? 
O  send  them  not  to  dwell  with  me ! 


.<i' 


Are  there  wlio  cannot  weep — 

Of  proud  and  icy  eye — 
Whose  softer  feelings  ever  sleep, 

Whose  deep  heart-cells  are  dry? — 
Who  darkly  look,  and  ne'er  can  bo 
Or  unconstraiiied,  or  fancy  free? 
Then  send  not  such  to  dwell  with  me. 


Are  there,  whose  souls  can  melt — 
Dissolve  in  tears  aud  sighs ; 

Whose  tendern(!ss  is  always  felt. 
Whose  friendship  never  dies; 

Whose  love  is  like  yon  starrj'  flame.' 

'i'hat  ever  burns  and  burns  the  same? 

O  let  such  greet  me — sjx-ak  my  name ! 


I.   [/rsa  Major. 


'      <*! 


HEARTS. 


171 


Send  me  the  soul  tliat  flies 

To  greet  its  kindred  sliade; — 
Tlie  liist'rous  deeps  of  Juliet's  eyes, 

'Neatli  silken  I.islies  laid  I 
G'v«!  me  the  bliss  that  brims  to  woe. 
The  t(\irs  and  smiles  that  overtlovv; — 
Such  sun-bright  spirits  bid  me  know ! 

Give  me — but  ah.  in  vain  I 

Where  is  the  star-souled  one. 
Whose  voice  with  music's  softest  strain 

Will  woo  and  load  me  on? — 
Like  stars  of  heaven  o'er  glisuMiing  seas. 
Such  hearts  as  never  fail  to  please. 
Or  cease  to  charm — canst  briny:  me  these? 


.  1 


lifi 


r  F 


w^ 


ARROWS. 

Far  up, 
I  sec.  when;  late  my  boy's  swift  arrow  tlew. 
A  star's  first  twinkle  throiif^h  the  stainless  blue; 
Scarce  has  the  sun  gone  down,  but,  faint  and  fair, 
Its  welcome  ray  proclaims  its  i)reseiice  there; 
And  I^  exnltin<ij  in  my  boy's  dclij^ht. 
While  gazing  upward,  see  the  cheering  sight. 

Far  up. 
The  arrow  of  devotion  tak(;s  its  flight. 
And.  starlike,  kindles,  while  as  yet  'tis  light; 
Dazzled  mine  eye  may  Ix'.  or  dim  witli  tears. 
Yet  in  His  place  my  heart's  own  Star  appears; 
And  I,  exidting.  or  with  calm  delight, 
Find,  as  night  darkens,  that  it  beams  more  bright. 


AMBITION. 


WERE  we  all  wo  dream  of  hoiiio^, 
J     Wreathen  with  our  ideal  bloom, 
What  glories,  far  beyond  our  seeing, 
Would  not  enkindled  pride  assume  ! 

But  to  Ambition  'tis  not  given 
Safely  on  proudest  heights  to  dwell : — 

Once  from  the  summer-lands  of  Heaven 
The  fairest  of  archangels  fell. 

Blest  he  who  comes,  through  action  noble. 

A  nobler  heart  and  hope  t' attain; 
But  thou,  O  sighing  soul  I  tiiy  trouble 

Hath  made  thee  heir  of  bootless  pain  I 

Pain  hath  been  thy  stern  adviser, 
The  yoke  hath  made  thee  fume  and  fret; 

And  though  the  rod  hath  nvidc  thee  wiser, 
Thj'  stripes  are  red  and  burning  yet. 

O  idle  dreaming  and  desiring  I 

How  oft  the  world's  acclaim  hatli  hailed 
VoH  and  hero  jusi  expiring. 

Nor  hath  their  broken  heart  availed. 
98 


i1 


■■•■    1   , 


V 


m 


174 


AMBITION. 


When  soiled  tlu^  lustre  of  the  spirit, 
VV' hen  diinnied  the  brightness  of  the  eye, 

These,,  oft,  the  world's  awards  to  Merit — 
To  toil,  to  suffer,  and  to  die. 

Had  we  the  fullness  of  our  craving, 
Our  restless  fate  would  urge  us  higher: 

Then  shall  we  find  our  bliss  in  having, 
More  than  in  unfulfllled  desire? 


Better,  perchance,  to  dream  of  beauty, 
Better  to  sigh,  and  sing  of  fame; 

For  Fancy  weaves  a  spell  more  mighty 
Than  lingers  round  the  grandest  name. 


<1 


lii   iil 


ivA 


SO  N  a. 

Q GLEAM  broke  out  of  a  roseate  sky, 
From  the  feet  of  an  angel  coining  to  Heaven's  door; 
And  the  sonnd  of  a  song  came  floating  by, 

Mingled  with  chords  of  a  golden  harp  she  bore. 

A  path  led  down  to  the  pnrple  shore 

Of  cloudland,  laved  by  a  sea  of  shining  flame; 

And  singing,  singing  from  heaven's  door, 
Downward  to  aie  this  music-angel  came. 


m.  •  I 

m 


CjpV'M'i '^ 


U 


m 


a   BLINDED  iin^^ftl  siii<;iii^'  In  the  dark, 
Witli  wildest,  sweetest  music;  a  lost  sphere 
Swinging  apart  in  its  lone  atniosj)here. 
As  on  its  shoreless  sea  tloated  the  ark ; 
A  bird,  of  rich  but  nielaneholy  tone, 

hendin«?  through  twilight-woods  its  plaintive  wail, 
While  Echo  niocketh  from  luu*  rocky  throne, 

Telling  from  hill  to  hill  her  idle  tale  : — 
O,  listless  Poet!  thy  enchanted  mind 
Was  the  abode  of  iieauty !    There  arose 
Such  shapes  as  throng  the  gates  of  sunset  skies ! 
Yet  some  fair  pearls  of  price  thou  didst  not  lind, — 
A  heart  at  rest,  a  spirit  in  repose. 
That  humble  faith  which  makes  the  simple  wise. 


^>^^^t?<^ 


it  *^"'  V'*' 

1 

0^r: 

m 

.^   K  V' 

m 

,  f , 

El 

■ 

P'- 

■!---^ 

pi 

s;  ■ 

^•i( 

MAY 


lOVV  boauteous  was  thy  early  youth, 
That  knew  not  of  declino. 
When  innocence  and  lovelhiess 

Made  thee  a  holy  shrine  ! 
Fresh  to  thy  couch  the  wakening  Spring 

Brought  dreams  of  llower  and  tree; 
And  Love,  the  tenderest  blossom,  gave 
Its  open  heart  to  me. 

O,  once  I  saw  tlie  new-rimmed  moon 

Hung  o'er  tlie  hill-top  low, 
While  in  their  azure  fields  began 

Eve's  golden  flowers  to  blow ! 
How  rich  the  thick-leaved,  mossy  trees, 

And  the  sweet  turf  beneath  ! — 
I  seemed  to  draw  celestial  air 

With  each  enraptured  bjcath  ! 
But.  ah,  most  blissful  I  thou  wert  there, 

With  calm,  uplifted  eyes. 
That  lent  new  beauty  to  the  flowers. 

New  lustre  to  the  skies  I 

But,  O  how  beautiful  wert  thou, 
When,  bridal-white,  from  home^ 


178 


MAY. 


■ff 


H         It   r 


1 1" 


Along  tho  aisle,  with  flowery  trai;i 

I  saw  thee  smiling  come ! 
Again  adown  tiie  vanlted  nave 

The  breathing  organ  swells; 
And  all  my  spirit  answers  to 

The  pealing  of  the  bells. 

And  lovely  wert  thou,  when  a  year 

Had  almost  passed  away ; 
Yet  thou  didst  grow  so  meek  and  pale, 

My  fading  lily — May! 
From  garden-walks  thy  step  was  gone — 

'J'he  garden,  once  thy  pride; 
And  tile  sweet  nmsic  of  thy  voice 

In  mournful  silence  died; 
Thine  eye  with  stranger  lustre  shone, 

While  fainter  grew  thy  breath; 
And  on  thy  cheek  the  wan  rose  came, 

That  onl}^  blooms  in  death. 

And  thou  wast  beautiful  when  thou 

Wert  lying  mute  and  chill, 
Unmoved  by  all  my  bitter  grief — 

So  white — so  calmly  still! 
There,  yet,  the  wreathing  of  a  smile 

Dwelt  round  thy  marbled  lips — 
A  sunbeam  of  the  parted  soul, 

'J'hat  death  could  not  eclipse: 
1  could  not,  while  I  saw  thee,  feel, 

With  all  my  weight  of  pain, 
That  the  dear  lips  I  loved  to  kiss 

Would  never  speak  again. 

My  faded  flower  of  love — my  May ! 
Where  art  thou,  darling,  where? 


IHfy 


Va 


MAY. 


17» 


I  gaze  into  this  starlit  sl<y. 

And  (loom  thiit  thou  art  thoro; — 
For,  in  tli(!  kindly  hour  of  youth, 

I  found  tiieeovor  truo; 
Thy  pcacoful  presence  on  my  heart, 

Fell  soft  as  evening  dew; 
And  while  I  toil  and  weep  alone, 

How  hard  my  lot  would  be. 
Did  I  not  hope  in  yon  bright  world 

'lo  meet  again  with  thee ! 


pi' 


r 


-\ 


wo  KDS  WORTH, 


■':3 


u 


9 
If 

p    :  I 

Ml 


.  ii: 


Oj 


In  Rememhranck  ok  iiis  Si  hmmk  Odk. 


ORDSWORTII!  the  tender  rapture  of  thy  song. 

Hath  toiiclied  lonjj^-shimberinj;:  chords  of  jjrief  and  joy ; 
Hath  poured  a  consecrating  light  along 

Those  days  when  I.  too.  roamed  a  passionate  boy. 
Courting  the  mountain  winds,  the  stars  on  high, 
Living  in  sensuous  dreamy  fantasy, — 
And  felt  the  power  of  river,  grove,  and  sea, 
With  all  that  gives  delight  to  ear  or  eye. 
What  though  thy  full  experience  is  confined 

To  spirits  fineh'-toned.  who  can  aspire 
Above  faint  types  to  tlie  Eternal  Mind? 

Enough !  my  soul  hath  caught  thy  lofty  fire. 
And  drawn  deep  lessons  from  those  years  that  lie 
Asleep  in  dreams  and  visions  of  Immortality ! 


!h!  13 


h    ! 


CONTErvI  RI^ATION. 


III 


«{ 


I  consider  Tliy  heavens,  tlie  work  of  Thy  finfjers,  the   moon  and  the  stars 
which  Thou  hast  ordained. — Psalm  vii,:  j. 


-nd  joy ; 
)oy, 


le 


|ITE  liills  tlieir  awful  summits  show. 
Far  \\\^  tlio  blue  soroiio. 
Clad  ill  eternal  cloud  and  snow, 

Or  mantling  robe  of  o^reen ; 
And  llowers  are  planted  at  their  feet, 

And  stars  above  their  heads, 
Where,  after  noontide's  fervent  heat, 
Tlie  evening  enrtain  spreads. 

O,  Thou !  who  in  Thy  secret  place 

Dwelt,  ere  these  scenes  begun, 
'Twas  at  Thy  word  of  power  and  grace 

These  mighty  deeds  were  done  I 
The  shining  spaces  I  survey — 

Of  old  Thy  wond'rous  plan — 
And  marvel  iit  the  m:ij(>sty 

'i'hat  yet  will  stoop  to  man  I 

Thou,  from  the  reach  of  mortal  sight. 
Hast  set  Thy  throiic  on  high ; 
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Photographic 

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23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

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182 


CONTEMPLA  TION. 


Hast  flushed  tlie  earth  with  roseate  light, 

And  lit  the  crystal  sky. 
Thine  is  this  eve's  pnrpiireal  shade, 

The  morning's  joyous  frame, 
Where  glows,  in  glorious  lines  portray 'd. 

The  splendor  of  Thy  name. 

In  Thine  abyss  of  central  light 

There  can  no  shadow  be ; 
The  past  as  nothing  in  Thy  sight, 

The  future  hid  in  Thee : 
Eternal  youth  is  Thine ;  no  tears 

Bedim  Thy  bright  abode ; 
Thou  art,  from  everlasting  j'^ears 

To  everlasting— God ! 

Prophets  and  bards,  inspiring  Mind, 

Their  raptures  draw  from  Thee ; 
Thy  works  an  open  page  they  find. 

Of  marvelous  mystery ; 
They  gather  hopes  and  thoughts  sublime 

From  fields  of  earth  and  skies. 
And  from  the  mean  concerns  of  time 

They  teach  our  hearts  to  rise. 

Ethereal  beauty,  throned  in  light ! — 

Theme  of  eternal  praise ! 
Refine  the  dull,  the  sensuous  sight, 

Th.at  now  Thy  work  surveys; 
Bid  heavenly  truth  from  all  things  break. 

Ally  n»y  thought  with  Thine, 
And  teach  this  trembling  string  to  wake, 

In  harmony  divine. 


A    SPRINQ     SONQ. 

a  JOYOUS  rhyme  of  a  grladsome  time 
That  agiiiii  is  coming  to  greet  tlie  earth, 
When  Winter  shall  spring  on  his  cold  white  wing, 
And  Light  and  Beanty  renew  their  birth ! — 

When  the  swelling  buds  break  forth,  and  the  woods 
With  song  brim  over,  and  streams  run  clear ; 

When  the  sweet-toned  rills  are  heard  from  the  hills, 
And  the  cheery  singing  of  birds  is  here ! 

A  song  of  the  flowers  that  shall  be  ours 

When  the  balmy  south  wind  breathes  the  Spring, — 
Of  the  violets  rare,  and  the  snowdrops  fair. 

And  the  swallows  returning  on  glancing  wing! 

The  time  of  love,  when  the  piny  grove 
Grows  warm  in  its  murm'ring  dark-green  deep ; 

And  sweet  Arbute,  at  the  maple's  root, 
On  the  floor  of  the  forest  begins  to  creep ! — 

When  the  night  is  gone,  and  the  rosy  dawn, 
Gives  rising  splendor  o'er  half  the  earth ; 

And  the  wild  flowers  peep  from  their  mossy  sleep, 
On  the  downy  couch  of  their  spring-time  birth ! — 


/ 
5 


}  H 


184 


A  SPRING  SONG. 


i 

i 
11 

1 

It 


When  each  grassy  plot  has  many  a  spot 

Of  the  daiidelior's  transient  gold; 
And  a  genial  fire  wakes  each  greening  spire, 

And  pierces  each  seed  in  the  qiiick'ning  mould  !- 

When  the  sun  mounts  high  in  the  kindling  sky, 
And  the  earth  rolls  warm  in  her  bath  of  beams, 

Till  the  lush  green  cover  is  spread  all  over 
The  plain  and  valley,  made  rich  with  streams ! 

Then  let  us  sing  of  the  hastening  Spring! — 
Behold,  she  cometh  to  greet  the  earth ! — 

The  frost  and  snow  to  their  ice-lands  go, 
And  Light  and  Beauty  renew  their  birth ! 


THE    PROLOQUE    IN    HEAVEN. 


From  Faust. 
[The  Lord  and  the  Heavenly  Host.    Three  Archangels  enter.] 

RAPHAEL. 

HE  sun  on  high  makes  ancient  emulous  music 
Amid  his  rival  spheres, 
Fulfilling,  with  his  constant  step  of  thunder. 

His  circle  thro'  the  years ; 
Tho'  fathomless,  the  mighty  angels  strengthen 

With  gazing  on  his  ray : 
The  world's  unwithered  countenance  doth  brigliten, 
As  on  Creation's  day. 

OABRIEL. 

Swift  inconceivably,  with  rapid  lightness 

Spins  the  adorned  earth ; 
The  clear  elysian  day-spring  alternating 

With  midnight's  blackest  birth  ; 
Broad  foams  the  sea,  tossed  out  from  its  dark  places^ 

Upon  the  rocks,  in  spray ; 
While  all  things,  whirl'd  in  an  eternal  motion, 

Move  on  their  awful  way. 


til 


186 


THE  PBOLOOUE  IN  HEAVEN. 


I 


"nl 


MICHAEL. 

From  sea  to  land  the  tempests  wage  commotion, 

And  roar  from  land  to  sea, 
Belting  the  earth,  in  rage  of  emulation, 

With  power  perpetually : 
A  flashing  desolation  flameth  onward 

Along  the  thunder's  way : — 
But  we,  O  Lord,  revere  the  gentle  changes 

Of  Thy  diviner  day ! 

CHORUS  OF  THE  THREE. 

Tho'  fathomless,  the  mighty  angels  strengthen 

With  gazing  on  Thy  ray : 
The  world's  unwithered  countenance  hatli  brightness. 

As  at  Creation's  day. 


IN    SOLEMN     VISION.* 


A  Reverie  on  the  Hill. 

t 

•f  •  STOOD  on  the  hill  at  evening, 
y      When  the  day  was  nearly  done. 
And  the  gloaming  shades  were  falling 

On  the  track  of  the  sunken  sun : 
Twas  the  old  familiar  churchyard. 

With  its  dark  pines  tossing  high. 
With  its  shady  nook,  and  pleasant  brook 

That  below  ran  murm'ring  by. 

From  the  heaven's  hidden  glory 

Had  dropped  Spring's  rarest  green. 
And  the  velvet  turf  beneath  me 

Seemed  bathed  in  mystic  sheen ; 
The  marble  shaft  and  stone  uprose, 

Deep-oloquent  of  woe. 
Of  dead-march  sung,  and  sad  hearts  wrung, 

For  the  dead  that  slept  below. 

And  I  thought  of  one**  then  lying 
Where  never  a  mourner's  tread 


''■'■ 


M 

M 


I.     In  clear  dream  and  solemn  vision. 

— Milton.     Comus. 


2.    A  brother  of  the  author,  lost  at  sea. 


If  pr 

1 1  A 


1, 


188 


m 


IN  SOLEMN  VISION. 


Could  come,  nor  wild  rose  blossom 

Above  the  sleeper's  head; 
Where  the  marching  winds  in  chorus 

Wailed  dirge  for  a  mother's  joy; 
And  the  syren  wave  sad  requiem  gave 

For  her  ill-fated  boy. 

But  his  sleep  in  the  heart  of  ocean 

Is  sweet — and  all  is  well ! 
Though  no  funeral  train  attended, 

Nor  tears  at  his  burial  fell, 
God  brooded  o'er  his  dying. 

And  made  him  a  royal  tomb. 
Where  the  clioiring  stars,  in  golden  bars. 

Hang  anthems  througli  the  gloom. 

Alas !  for  the  Spring-time's  power 

O'er  withered  leaves  and  sere. 
While  no  sweet  Spring  recalleth 

An  unreturning  year! 
Alas !  that  Love  should  labor. 

And  Nature  strive  in  vain 
To  re-illume  with  their  radiant  bloom 

Our  winter  of  death  again ! 

Upon  the  hill  at  evening 

I  saw  a  sovereign  die. 
And  clouds  of  fiery  crimson 

Hung  round  his  western  sky; 
The  couch  of  the  dying  monarch 

Was  spread  with  cloth  of  gold; 
And  a  fire-pierced  sln-oud  of  glorious  cloud 

Across  his  broad  disc  rolled. 

Then  I  dreamed  that  the  passing  spirit 
As  bright  a  setting  knew, 


R1 

i 


IN  SOLEMN  VISION. 


189 


While  along  Death's  darkling  pathway 

With  chainless  wing  it  flew; 
That  a  cloud  of  God-like  glory 

Trailed  o'er  its  perilous  way, 
While  the  seraphim  and  the  cherubim 

Were  guides  to  a  sunless  day. 

Then  my  weary  heart  grew  lighter, 

And  I  said,  "These  fornjs  shall  rise. 
As  the  new-born  sun  up-bursteth 

Above  the  orient  skies ; 
When  the  wintry  storms  are  over, 

Shall  the  vernal  zephyrs  blow. 
And  the  life-tree  bloom,  and  joy  find  room. 

In  that  land  to  which  they  go." 

1  stood  on  the  hill  at  evening. — 

My  heart  too  sad  for  tears. 
As  I  mused  o'er  the  grave  of  my  early. 

My  lightly-liiden  years; 
And  so  wan  and  bare  was  my  present. 

In  the  gray  and  sober  light. 
That  life  no  more  looked  as  before. 

Magnificently  bright. 

"'O  <lays,  that  have  departed. 

Since  we  went  hand  in  hand 
Along  in  these  shady  footpaths, 

A  happy  youthful  band ! 
These  vanished — Oh  !  where  are  they? 

Speak,  ye  eternal  years ! 
Answer,  thou  deep,  where  brave  hearts  sleep 

Answer!" — I  called,  in  tears. 

"But  well  He  doeth  all  tilings; 
Amen,  so  let  it  be!'* 
24 


100 


IN  SOLEMN  VISION 


Then  through  my  soul  came  pealing 

A  Sabbath  liarmony : 
I  gazed  far  down  the  future. 

Through  the  region  of  hope  and  faith. 
Till  I  saw  the  morn  when,  by  God  upborne, 

I  should  break  the  bands  of  death. 

The  baleful  star.  Ambition, 

Shot  downward  into  gloom ; 
And  I  saw  the  glare  of  a  furnace 

From  many  a  laurel'd  tomb ; 
And  the  final  flame  reached  the  bird  of  Fame, 

As  he  soared  above  his  pyre ; 
And  the  glory  of  earth  and  its  boasted  worth 

Passed  away  amidst  the  fire ! 

Then,  amid  the  graves  low  kneeling, 

I  breathed  a  prayer  to  heaven. 
That  the  deathless  love  of  Jesus 

Might  to  my  soul  be  given ; — 
That  the  Morning  Star  eternal 

Might  forevermore  be  mine ; 
And  that  in  His  sight  with  a  quenchless  light, 

My  soul  might  glow  and  shine. 


KEATS. 

A  Reminiscence  of  his  "  Ode  to  the  Nightingale." 

POET!  who  roainest  in  a  fuirylanU, 
Too  rich  and  passionate  for  tliis  sober  earth, 
Ttiou  surely  liast  some  talisnianic  wand. 

Or  Genius  of  a  more  tiian  mortal  birth, 
Who  steers  thy  bark  o'er  strange  enclianted  seas. 

To  islands  fairer  than  Hesperldes ; 
Where  thy  grand  eyes  do,  wond'ringly,  behold 
A  touch  transmuting  e'en  the  rocks  to  gold. 
There  thro'  voluptuous  skies,  and  bloomy  shades. 

An  unimaginable  glory  falls, 
When  the  pale  moon  gleams  thro'  the  silver'd  glades, 

And  star-born  halos  till  their  verdurous  halls ; 
And  mystic  music  trembles  to  and  fro, 
From  one  lone  Nightingale  that  chanted  soft  and  low. 


u 


^ 


i|ti 


V      I 


A  N  a  E  Iv  s . 

t  — 

"T  N  the  chill  nutiunii  iii^ht,  when  lone  winds  grieve, 
T*     [  musinj^  sat,  where  on  my  cottage  wall 
The  flicliering  shadows  of  the  Hre-light  fall— 
Shnttles  tliat  Fancy's  silver  web  doth  weave: 
Lonely  and  worn,  1  thonyjht  npon  the  dearth 
Of  heavenly  influence ;   for  our  dull  earth 
No  longer  may  her  plumy  guests  receive 
From  regions  where  divinest  things  have  birth. 

Wandering  in  dream,  I  saw  the  uew-ris'n  Eve, 
Prime  of  all  human  beauty — human  worth, 
Sitting  upon  a  flower-besprinliled  mound 
Of  Paradise;  and  felt  the  charm,  the  grace, 
The  pure  content  that  harmonized  her  face. 
She  moved  not,  but  a  tranquil  rapture  found 
In  gazing  upward,  rapt  with  wondrous  view 
Of  gold-wing'd  angels  softly  breaking  through. 
Or  melting  in  the  deep  of  evening  blue — 
Fleet  couriers,  messaged  from  a  world  afar — 
And  on  the  brow  of  each  a  lucent  star ! 

'•  Strange!"  thought  I,  wonderhig  at  the  things  I  saw. 
Like  him  at  Bethel,  waking,  filled  with  awe 


ANGELS. 


198 


Of  his  great  vision  :  ''  Surely,  I  l)Phokl 
The  angels  tarrying  with  us  af)  of  old  !** 

And  though  the  flrelit  embers  had  not  died, 

They  made  not  the  sweet  face  my  chair  beside, 

The  form  of  light — and  fair  as  Eden's  bride — 

Watching  each  sparkle  with  her  quiet  smile. 

''Dear  fireside  angel,  who  dost  go  and  come, 

Like  light  and  music  through  the  halls  of  home! — 

And  are  there  angels  with  us  yet?"     I  cried ; 

*'  And  come  they  still,  who  came  to  earth  erewhile?" 

"  There  are,"  she  said ;  "though  oft  the  world  seem  cold, 

And  life  8««em  disenchanted  with  dull  cares. 

The  heavenly  ministry  cometh  as  of  ohl — 

We  wake  to  tind  our  angels  unawares." 


/^" 


"\ 


AWAKKNINO. 

Ij  WAKE !  my  year,  awake ! 
^■^Now,  while  the  snowdrops  break 
Through  their  green  sheaths ; 
And  singing  birds  come  back, 
While  over  all  their  track 
The  soft  wind  breathes : 
Come !  vital  source  of  being,  come ! 

Thou  child  of  Are,  and  meekest  soal ! — 
My  heart  is  cold,  my  lips  are  dumb, 
And  wintry  clouds  above  me  roll. 

My  winter  hath  been  long, 
Uncheered  by  blessed  song. 

And  holy  smile ; 
The  dimly-lighted  morn, 
Frost-shadow'd,  I  have  borne 
A  weary  while : 
Now  from  my  East,  O,  morning  break ! 

Enchant  the  earth  with  beams  and  flowers ! 
O,  morning  of  the  heart,  awake 
The  singing  birds,  the  slumb'ring  powers ! 

Come !  joy  of  all  my  years, — 
That  gives  me  sweeter  tears 


A  WAKENING. 


195 


And  tenderer  grace ; 
Bringing  me,  in  thy  flight. 
For  love  and  for  delight, 
A  little  space ; — 
Engage  with  fresh,  inspiring  toil. 

With  noble  aim  and  high  pursuit ; 
The  quickening  seed  within  the  soil 
Longs  for  the  perfect  flower  and  fruit. 


m 


HIGH     AND     LOW. 

(HINK  not  that  'raid  the  stars  alone 
The  reahn  of  eontemphition  lies; 
For  thoughts  of  (iod.  like  seeds. are  sown 
In  every  rteld  whence  flowers  arise, — 
And  even  earth  is  ni'ighbor  of  the  skies. 

The  rock,  the  rose,  its  truth  imparts. 
The  farthest  orb  can  nothing  more ; 

And  wisdom  conies  to  lowly  hearts. 
That  search,  and  wonder,  and  adore. 
Full  oftener  when    they  stoop  than   when   tlioy 
soar.' 

Calm  'mid  the  hills — where  silence  dwells, 
Or  brook  and  bird  make  mirth  and  song. 

And  brooding  pines'  sweet  murmur  svvells, 
The  spirit  groweth  wise  and  strong, — 
And  hearts  are  soonest  soothed  that  suffer  wroiiu:. 

Then  witli  a  fond  and  reverent  eye. 
Like  him.  of  England's  vernal  prime 

1.  Methinks 
Wisdom  is  ofttimes  neuter  when  we  stoop 
Than  when  we  soar.— Excursion.  B.  III. 


HIGH  AND  LOW. 


197 


hen  thoy 


kr  wrons;. 


And  matin  song,'  let  nie  espy 
The  summer  mead ;  or  Hst  the  rhj'^me 
Of  a  loved  minstrel  of  our  later  time." 

Or,  let  me  go  with  him  who  saw 
''The  common  weal  with  boundless  love;"^ 

And  feel  no  iron  links  of  law 
Draw  round  my  life,  in  field  and  grove, 
While  all  in  endless  freedom  with  me  move. 

There  let  me  learn  a  richer  lore 
Than  pundit's  volume  can  disclose; 

Or  feel  in  sympathy,  once  more. 

With  Nature's  '■'•meanest  flower  that  l>lows,"' — 
Seeing  where  Beauty  lies  asleep  within  the  rose. 

There  let  me  yearn  toward  Heaven  in  prayer — 
In  weakness  strong,  in  meekness  bold; 

There  let  me  draw  reviving  air. 
And  walk  in  Fancy's  ''realm  of  gold." 
Where  eyes  fade  not.  and  never  hearts  grow  cold. 

Then,  with  a  vigor  newly  born. 
Back  to  my  dailj'  tasks  I'll  turn, 

And,  with  a  face  as  fresh  as  morn. 
And  love  that  dares  not  slight  nor  spurn, 
rU  bid  each  fellow-face  to  shine,  each  heart  to 
burn. 

And  all  1  learn,  of  high  or  low. 
Shall  not  be  closed  within  my  breast; 

Forth  as  a  stream  my  thoughts  shall  flow, 
And  each  experience  be  confessed, 
That  in  the  gift  we  may  be  doubly  blest. 


1.  Chaucer. 

2.  Wordsworth. 
.'{.  Burns. 

26 


-:  <\ 


1  = 


■  »  ■    i 


A     MAY-SONQ. 


From  Ciiaicek. 


MAY-TIME !      Merry  month.  I  hail  thee  here. 

Thou  tlowery  «;ate\vjiy  of  the  blooming  year  I 

For  thee  the  groves  with  (hmciiig  green  are  (light, 
And  ring  with  birds  from  early  morn  till  night; 
While  on  their  glancing  wings  the  soft  hours  tly 
Till  Phoebus'  car  glides  down  its  amber  sky. 

O  Maytime!  merry  month  of  beams  and  showers, 
Whose  easy  pencil  streaks  and  frecks  the  flowers. 
Hold  still  thy  sway;  for  when  thy  reign  is  o'er. 
Th"  ascending  sun's  dominion  comes  once  more; 
And  on  the  plains  his  fervid  brow  shall  beat. 
Till  all  the  groves  grow  faint  with  feverish  heat. 

May  no  untimely  frost,  no  blight  o'ertake 
The  tender,  pearly  blossoms  thou  dost  Avake ; 
Nor  beast,  with  venomed  tooth,  come  near  to  crop 
The  beauties  nestling  in  thy  llowery  lap; 
Bu^  may  thy  nymphs  direct  my  steps  aright, 
y  greenest  leaves  may  grow,  and  tlowers  most 

pearl}'  white. 


THE    VIOIvET. 


'm'\ 


From   Goethe. 


the  meadow  wot  with  dew, 
[n  its  sweet  loneliness  a  violet  j^rew. 
Hidden  the  weeds  ainon<^: 
VVitli  careless  step,  at  break  of  day. 
A  rosy  shepherdess  that  way 
Came  on. 

Across  tht      i-adow-path. 
And  cheerily  she  snnjj. 

••  Would  that  I."  the  violet  sighed, 
*•  Were  statelier  born — sonic  i;arden\s  (lueenly  pride 
And  not  so  sli»jht  a  tlower! 
That  I  might  gathered  be,  and  pressed 
To  yield  my  fragrance  to   her  breast ; 
Ah,  me  I 

That  1  might  there  abide 
For  but  one  little  hour !" 

Op,  with  singing,  came  the  lass. 
Crushing  the  unseen  violet  in  the  grass : 
Bruised,  it  said  :     *'How  sweet!" — 
"How  sweet,"  with  elfin  moan  and  sigh, 
It  breathed,  "for  her  alone  to  die, 
Unseen, 

A  joy  unknown. 
At  her  beloved  feet!" 


■™'^: 


mi 


t'i' 

I 'a 

m 


1  <ii  '■ 


[!    :i 


A    ROUNDY    CHEER     FOR 

KARMKR. 


THE 


IMPKOMPTU. 

O!  IIo!  let  US  olioer  liinil — the  liale  and  tho  tanned  I— 
With  the  brave  of  his  heart,  and  tlie  brawn  of  his  hand. 
The  inerry  brown  Fanner  is  kin^  in  the  land, — 
The  Farmer  forever !     Tlurrali  I 

Ho!  Ho!  lie  can  smile  at  the  pains  o'  the  great; 
He  maketh  his  fortune,  and  mendeth  his  fate. 
And  keeps  a  calm  hand  on  tlie  tiller  of  State, — 
The  Farmer  forever !  Hurrah! 

He  waves  his  wand  over  the  mould  o'  the  plain, 
He  calls  on  the  sun.  and  he  calls  on  the  rain. 
And  they  leap  up  to  life  in  the  beautiful  grain, — 
The  Farmer  forever!  Hurrah! 

Let  him  sit.  in  life's  evening,  and  dream  at  his  ease, 
'Neath  the  lush  leafy  boughs  of  his  blossomy  trees. 
Till  children's  grandchildren  climb  up  on  his  knees, — 
The  Farmer  forever!  Hurrah! 

Ho!  ho!  for  true  heart,  and  for  rough,  read}'  liand. 
The  promi)t  to  obey,  and  the  Hrm  to  command; 
The  merry  brown  Farmer  is  king  in  the  land. — 
The  Farmer  forever !  Hurrah  ! 


RYDAT^rvlERK. 

|()\V  sweetly  solemn — as  the  .ejibbath  bell 
SoundihiT  iii.ild  the  hiisli  of  sheltered  vales, 
Or  iDiisie  borne  on  winji^  of  snnnner  gales — 

Is  his  undying  song  who  loved  to  dwell 

Beside  thy  placid  bosom,  Hydalmere! 

Here,  calm  like  thee,  his  peaceful  days  were  spent, 

'Mid  scenes  alike  to  him  and  Nature  dear, 
'^In  the  deep  sabbath  of  blest  self  eoutent.'"' 

The  bubbling  runnels,  and  the  purling  rills, 
That  draw  their  sighing  nuninurs  from  the  hills. 
The  woods,  and  glens,  and  niountains  filled  his  dreams; 
His  verse  an  echo  is  of  birds  and  streams: 
Where'er  'mid  his  beloved  trees  he  went, 
Souje  fancied  sylvan  spirit  wandered  near.'' 

I.  Coleridge. 

i.  See  Wordsworth's  poem,  called  Nutting. 


■Xr. 


\  i 


% 


If? 


\  -}- 


aOD     IN     NATURE. 

Be  mute  who  will,  who  can, 
Yet  I  will  praise  Thee  with  impassion'd  voice; 
My  lips  that  may  forget  Thee  in  the  crowd, 
Cannot  forget  Thee  here  where  Thou  hast  built 
For  Thy  own  glory  in  the  wilderness. 


—  Wordsworth. 


GOD!  this  world  of  Thine  is  fair, 
When  to  tlie  Sonl  it  sjieiil^s  of  Thee; 
When  beams  of  glory  light  the  air, 
And  hues  of  beauty  paint  the  lea. 

For  when  Thy  hand,  Undying  Love ! 

T.akes  from  our  hearts  the  thorny  sin, 
O  then,  where'er  we  blissful  move. 

We  drink  Thy  living  Spirit  in ! 

With  rapture  tilled,  our  hearts  we  yield 
To  praiseful  Heaven's  divine  employ; 

We  swell  the  song  of  wood  and  field, 
And  emulate  sweet  Nature's  joy. 

Fresh  from  his  lowly  home  of  love. 
The  skylark  hails  Thee  with  the  day ; 

The  lonely  night-bird  in  the  grove 
Sings  in  Thine  ear  her  plaintive  lay. 


',;    ^TJit^a;. ... 


GOD  IN  NATURE. 


203 


Then  when  tl>e  vornal  oliolrs  ainonji; 

The  dimly-slmnbcrliijj  woods  awake. 
All  answer  to  their  inorniiij;  soiijjj 

Doth  from  my  swellliiji;  bosom  break. 

'I'he  rose,  embatlied  in  early  (lew. 

Breatlies  incense  from  its  mossy  shrine; 
And  (,'very  tlower,  of  every  hue. 

Doth  worsliip  Thee,  tlion  Sonl  Divine! 

And  wliere  tiie  moon,  tltrougli  cliist'ring  trees, 
Looks  on  tlie  bosom  of  the  stream, 

My  spirit  drinks  tlie  balmy  peaee — 
Tiie  gladness  of  a  summer  dream. 

The  heart's  wild  passions  sink  to  rest, 

And  tears  of  rapture  fill  the  eye;, 
When  evening  dons  h(;r  sober  vest. 

Or  bright  adorns  her  western  sky. 

Or,  when  the  nightly  Queen  has  set. 

O'er  all  the  won  Trous  areh  I  see 
The  starry  torches  Thou  hast  lit, 

To  guide  my  wandering  thoughts  to  Tliee. 

'Mid  scenes  of  peaceful  beauty  led, 
'V\\y  kindly  thoughts  i  love  to  trace; 

Nor  will  I  shun  the  wouders  dread 
Of  Th}'  most  secret  hiding  place. 

Yon  dusk  and  tlamy  piles  reveal 

Thy  pomp! — we  deem  Tliee  speaking  nigh  ; 
Awed  b}^  the  sounding  thunder-peal 

That  booms  along  the  midnighl  sky. 

God  of  the  soul,  of  star,  and  sun, 
''God  of  the  swallow,  and  the  bee !" 


i  I 


t\ 


V\ 


ti 


i'  ■ 


si 


r 


204 


QOD  IN  NATURE. 


Can  man  Ix'hohl  what  Thou  hast  <1ono. 
And  not  adoit;  and  worship  Thee? 

The  hh)oni  that  leaves  the  fading  year. 

If  Thon  remain,  we  may  fore«]fo — 
If  Thou  art  ours  hi  Autumn  sere. 

And  'mid  tlie  wintry  waste  of  snow. 

O  God!  Tliy  world  indeed  is  fair! 

It  speaivs  in  thousand  tones  of  Thee! 
Thv  voice  is  in  the  evening;  air. 

Thy  footsteps  on  the  mornin«);  sea. 


JH- 


P^ROST.\VOr«K.' 


ll'U  vvaniiost  smil*.    f.. 
A"^^in,^bH,«:'    ;,,.':,;•';  "-'n's'-t.  the  ,..„,,, 

Js  'lim^klv  Kone  '-,..,,.1,  ,  „       '        ''°"" 

seen  Poh   -,c    .00^ — 


n 


4- 


m^ 


'•I 


26 


.m^i. 


-r  -I 


11 


THK    SINGER. 

OUL  of  beauty  and  music !  Spirit  of  melody ! 

Moving  my  deepest  being,  as  with  a  sway  divine  :— 
Royal  mistress  of  rapture — majestic — matchless — free  I 

How  thy  voice  is  breathing  life  in  the  heart  of  eaeli 
passionate  line ! 
Sure  Music  is  Beauty,  and  Beauty  is  Truth.  I  ween ; 
But  of  Song,  and  Truth,  and  Beauty,  is  Love  the  Queen. 

Sing !  and  I  straight  am  dreaming !  Thou  sweepest,  with 
seraph  sheen, 
Aloft  through  measureless  spaces;  or  treadest  witli 
calmest  grace 

Where  ripples  of  laughing  water  with  mirth  are  stirring 
the  green 
Of  grasses,  and  rushes,  and  flowers  of  many  a  forest 
place ; 

Or  in  the  sunless  alleys — the  haunts  of  a  toil-worn  race, 

Where  wife  and  child  are  wailing  in  front  of  a  death- 
dark  face ! 

Soul  of  beauty  and  music !  Spirit  of  melody  !— 
Opening  the  gates  of  rapture,  the  dungeon  doors  of 
moan! 


THE  SINtfEB, 


207 


Thou  swayost  a  witching  sreptre!  thou  HitteHt  rcgnantly, 
My  heurl  H  uiolodlous  uiouarch!  uiy  t^u<M>u  on  Mu»lc*s 

throu(>! 
80  In  thy  tranquil  heauty  ev('rni(»i-«>  sit  thou  scn'nc; 
80  of  thy  triumphs  and  raptuivH  let  Love  hi>  (>verinore 

Queen ! 


^' 


'\ 


Iffpp^v 


A    POET'S    WISH. 

t  — 

I  F  I  could  have  whatever  I  nii<5lit  choose, 
"r     I  would  iny  Spenser's  faery  spirit  ask 
To  lead  my  thoii<>hts  to  beauty,  and  infuse 

The  power  and  impulse  for  some  glorious  task  ;- 

In  sunny  spaces  of  >;reen  woods  to  bask; 
To  tread  where  leafy  fingers  sprinkle  dews 

Of  consecration;  where  from  poet's  flask 
1  drink  rich  llippocrene.     While  we  p(M'us(; 

The  calm  of  Nature's  face,  most  tenderly 
She  smiles  her  love  into  our  hearts;  and  hues 

That  never  perisii  enter  tlie  charmed  eye; 
And  while  companioned  with  the  h)ft3'  Muse 
The  sovereign  moments  lose  all  «lull  monotony. 


mi 


THE  DAISY. 


FROM  CHAUCER. 


— When  coineg  the  month  of  May, 
Aiul  the  returiiiM<>;  birds  an^  lieard  to  sin^. 
And  all  the  meadow  tlowei's  begin  to  spring, 
I  am  awake  at  early  mornin*;:  tide, 
Aud  every  book  and  prayer  is  laid  aside, 
Because  my  heart  is  lilled  with  this  delight, 
As  soon  as  fades  the  shadow  of  the  night. 
To  walk  amid  the  blossoms,  white  and  red, 
With  which  the  mead's  green  bosom  is  bespread. 
And  most  1  love  the  simi)le  blooms  and  small 
Which  in  our  neighborhood  we  daisies  call, — 
ISweet  objects  of  alVection  and  esteem  ! 
So  when  May  sheddeth  down  her  sunny  i)eam, 
There  dawns  no  day  that  tindeth  nie  in  bed; 
But  1  am  up,  the  downy  lields  to  tread, 
And  see  this  blossom  of  humility 
And  love,  ope  to  the  eun  its  little  eye: 
For  when  it  springs  up  early  on  the  morrow. 
The  sight  so  blissful  softens  all  my  sorrow; 


i 


I .  '(It 


210 


THE  DAISY. 


My  heart  is  glad  that  I  am  corae  to  see 

Its  smile — and  I  admire  it  reverently, 

And  hold  it  prime  of  all  the  flowers,  and  peer. 

Sweet  virtuous  type  of  honor  most  sincere, 

And  ever  fair  the  same,  and  fresh  of  hue  I 

I  love  it  always — it  seems  ever  new — 

And  I  shall  love  it  alwavs  till  I  die.    ♦    *    ♦ 


?     h 


'''\ 


I.  :i 


SONG. 

LOPE  softly  o'er  the  verdurous  mead, 

Sunlight  of  cloudless  skies, 
And  kiss  my  lady's  cheek  I 

Lo !  her  deep,  passionate  eyes, 
By  love — ethereal  love — illumed. 

Eclipse  thy  whitest  beams, 
Whenever  they  glance  back 

The  borrowed  sheen  of  silvery  streams. 

Blow  gently  round  the  winding  woods, 

O  perfumed,  gleeful  air! 
And  touch  my  lady's  lips. 

Wooing  with  kisses  rich  and  rare  : 
Her  murmurous  breath,  outbreathed  in  sighs, 

Is  balmier  than  thine. 
Wafted  from  orange  groves 

In  some  far-off,  voluptuous  clime. 


i 


lis    ■ 


,  sia, 


1$ 


^^ 


SILENT    Sl^EKCH. 


HE  grecu  leaves  twinkiod  overlicatl 

And  lightly  on  the  turf  beneath 
She  walked, — but  not  a  word  we  said; 

She  braided  me  a  daisied  wreath, 
With  clover  and  young  grasses  blent. 
While  toward  the  sea  we  smiling  went. 

The  glossy  buttercups  were  there, 
Sprinkling  the  waysides  with  their  gold  ; 

And  in  the  west  hung  splendors  rare, 
Of  sunset,  that  are  never  told; 

And  on  white  waters  glorified. 

The  quiet  ships  did  brightly  ride. 


The  charm  of  silence  was  not  broken 
With  words  that  softly  fill  the  ear — 

Affection's  sweet,  responsive  token — 
Accents  the  spiiit  leaps  to  liear; 

And  as  we   walked.  1  vainly  sought 

To  plume    with  speech  my  fluttering  thought. 


M'-ri- 


SILENT  SPEECH. 


218 


We  sat  to  rest  beside  the  way ; 

She  raised  her  sweet  eyes  up  to  mine; 
Her  inmost  soul  had  risen  to  say, 

''And  dost  thou  question  I  am  thine  ?"- 
No  need  tliat  she  or  I  should  speak ; 
For  love  is  strong  when  words  are  weak. 


.! 


27 


f«-'I 


IvOVK'S    BE:AIJTIF"TJIv    sphkrk. 


e 


OOK  at  the  moon,  as  her  circUi  of  gold 
Comes,  when  the  days  of  her  absence  are  told. 
To  gaze  on  the  earth,  her  beloved :  appear! 
My  Light,  in  the  light  of  Love's  beautiful  sphere ! 

Clusters  of  violets  lie  at  our  feet ; 

Clustering  fancies  and  memories  sweet 

Rise  in  our  hearts,  my  beloved!  appear! 

My  Light,  in  the  light  of  Love's  beautiful  sphere  I 

I  have  found  in  fair  flowers  Love's  eloquent  speech, 
I  have  hearkened  her  lessons,  the  little  birds  teach : 
I  will  tell  them  to  thee,  my  beloved  !  appear! 
My  Light,  in  the  light  of  Love's  beautiful  sphere! 

8tar  of  m}'^  sky !  pearl  of  my  sea ! 
Bloom  of  a  garden  that  blossoms  for  me ! — 
Thou  canst  not  be  lost,  my  beloved!  appear! 
My  Light,  in  the  light  of  Love's  beautiful  sphere! 

The  star  is  my  guide,  the  pearl  is  my  prize. 

1  piuck  from  Love's  garden  the  light  of  thine  eyes  ;— 

1  look  unto  thee,  my  beloved  1  appear ! 

M^i  Light,  in  the  light  of  Love's  beautiful  sphere ! 


LOVE'S  BEAUTIFUL  SPHERE, 


216 


Thou  art  ray  queen ;  and  ray  fancy  hath  built 
A  palace  of  leaves,  raoon-silvered.  sun-gilt. 
Wherein  thou  may'st  abide,  niy  beloved!  appear! 
My  Light,  in  tlie  light  of  Love's  beautiful  sphere! 

The  green  leaves  raay  wither,  the  raoon  may  depart, 
The  sun  raay  be  hidden,— but  thou  hast  my  heart 
For  thy  warm  abode,  my  beloved  !  appear ! 
My  Light,  in  the  light  of  Love's  beautiful  sphere ! 


':■: 


mi 


I 


I 


.■  •■■  "i- 


n 


!,;*:■■:  ■;.v  1 


AURORA. 

Ij  WAKE,  my  love !  thy  languid  eyes  unclose ! 
^■^     Aurora's  beaming  self  bids  thee  arise ! 
Fresh  from  the  dewy  gardens  of  the  rose 

She  comes,  'mid  crimson  of  the  dawning  skies; 

The  light  of  gladness  mellow  in  her  eyes, 
Joy  in  triumphant  vermeil  on  her  cheek ; 

Her  forehead  wreathed  with  flowers, — 

While,  in  our  shady  bowers, 
A  thousand  raptured  birds  her  praises  speak. 

With  wild  wood  harmonies. 

Awake,  my  love !  She  comes  in  bright  attire ! 

Her  breath  is  incense,  and  her  kiss  perfume! 
Her  heart  beats  with  the  rich  blood  of  desire ; 

To  touch  thy  lily  cheek  to  roseate  bloom. 

Flooding  with  waves  of  golden  light  the  room 
Where  thou  supinely  llest  on  thy  bed; 

And  through  the  cool,  green  shading 

Of  honeysuckle,  spreading 
Thy  chamber  window,  her  soft  whispers  come, 

Her  dews  of  love  are  shed. 

Awake,  my  love !  nor  fancy  more  amuse 
With  dreams  revolving  on  elusive  wing : 


AURORA. 


217 


Knee-deep  in  clover  blooms,  the  limpid  dews 
Have  pearled  her  goddess  feet ;  the  meadow  spring 
Gurgled  her  welcome,  as  she  came  to  bring 

Her  light  and  freshness  to  the  morning  lields : 
Come !  She  will  lead  us  onward 
To  wood-nooks,  facing  sunward, 

Where  every  flower  a  temperate  pleasure  yields, 
In  its  sweet  blossoming. 


;■.'  1  I 


.    .\ 


M 


J I 


!';?l?ffi!fl|!?j 


:  ,♦■;  ':; 


I 


RAIN      HEARD     AT 
IVEORNING. 

AFTKK    LONG   DROUTH. 


EARLY 


(3 


WAKENING  at  the  early  dawn,  I  hear 
The  liquid  tramp  and  footfall  of  the  rain, — 
The  flooded  spout  outside  ray  window-pane, 
Gushing  and  gurgling  on  my  quiet  ear : 

Chiming,  descend,  from  clouds  low-hovering,  clear 
And  lute-like  measures ;  while  the  fevered  earth, 
After  the  dust  and  drouth  makes  genial  mirth- 
Beats  her  deep  anthem — multiplies  her  cheer : 

The  wide  rejoicing  fields  their  frolic  sun 

Shall  soon  give  sparkling  greeting,  for  the  charm 
To  each  green  spire,  each  hud  and  bell,  abounds: 

Even  now  the  piping  robins  have  begun ; — 
Muffled  by  distance,  at  the  wakening  farm 
The  welcome  clarion  of  the  cock  resounds. 


TO   XHEK  THE   LOVE  OK  W0M:AN 
HATH    QONE     IDOW^N. 


"Dark  flow  thy  tides  o'er  manhood's  noble  head, 
O'er  youth's  brifht  locks,  and  beauty's  flowery  crown.' 


0 


— Hemans. 


OCEAN !  restless,  deep,  and  lone ! 
What  tribute  dost  thou  crave? 
riioii  hast  our  fairest,  favorite  one — 
The  generous,  and  the  brave. 

He  faded  from  the  yearning  shore, 
With  bark,  fleet-wing'd  and  free; 

He  comes  not — nor  deserts  thee  more, 
O  solitary  Sea ! 

The  feet  of  Sorrow  tread  not  where 
Thy  winds  and  billows  rave ; 

No  flower,  that  scents  the  summer  air, 
Shall  blossom  on  his  grave : 

But,  'neath  the  waves'  tumultuous  stir, 
And  tempest's  thunder-sweep. 

Low-wrapt  in  weedy  sepulchre. 
He  rests  with  thee,  O  Deep ! 


)■ 

i    ^^^H 

1 

^  HI 

1  ■ 

220      TO  THEE  THE  LO VE  OF  WOMA N  HA TH  GONE  DOWN. 

And  she  who  nmiled  upon  his  birth, 
Nor  dreamed  of  fate  forlorn, 

Mi»  vHiiiflhM  loveliness  and  worth 
Shall  nttver  cease  to  mourn. 

Nor  she,  to  whom  his  lot  was  joined. 

For  all  his  days  below. 
The  ringing  voice,  the  manly  mind, 

The  generous  love,  shall  know. 

Yet  not  with  thee,  O  mournful  Sea ! 

He  dwells,  we  see  no  more; 
But  safe  abides,  from  whelming  tides. 

On  some  diviner  sliore. 


WN. 


MEMORIES    OK    "IL    PENSEROSO." 


"  Let  my  due  feet  never  fail 

To  walk  the  studious  cloisters'  pale, 

And  love  the  hi^h  embower'd  roof, 

With  antique  {liTlars  massy  proof, 

And  storied  windows  richly  di((ht, 

Casting  a  dim  religious  lignt : 

There  let  the  pealing;  origan  blow, 

To  the  full-voiced  choir  below. 

In  service  high  and  anthems  clear, 

As  may  with  sweetness,  throu)(h  mine  ear. 

Dissolve  me  into  ecstasies. 

And  bring  all  heaven  before  mine  eyes." 


|0  let  me  walk  alone,  when  day  doth  fail, 
And  in  the  sky  the  ships  of  sunset  sail, 
Through  minster  cloisters,  and  cathedral  glooms. 
To  muse  o'er  marbled  shrines  and  laurePd  tombs. 
Where  bards  and  heroes  in  their  ashes  lie. 
Who  give  themselves  to  glory  ere  they  die. 
There,  while  the  golden  lights  do  downward  stream 
Through  pictured  windows  high,  with  rainbow  gleam, 
The  red  and  green  and  purple  lustres  glow. 
And  o'er  the  pavement  rich  illusion  throw; 
The  choir  shall  chant,  the  organ-peal  resound, 
While  ghostly  shades  to  music  move  around. 
'Mid  aisles  and  arches. 
38 


"',  .   .    I 


jfppl 


222 


MEMORIES  OF  "  IL  PEN8EB080." 


m 


i     I 


I'     ) 


Under  lofty  shade 
Let  mine  eye  wander  down  each  colonnade ; 
Then  npward,  where  the  painter's  hand  aloof, 
Has  bid  ids  angels  smile  from  out  the  roof; 
While  frequent  banners  floating  o'er  my  head 
Speak  of  tlie  battle,  and  the  mighty  dead. 
But,  chiefly,  let  the  Prophet's  voice  be  heard, — 
Let  the  anointed  utter  thence  the  Word ; 
And  let  the  various  tones  of  Christian  prayer 
Rise,  making  holy  all  the  slumb'rous  air: 
There,  let  Devotion  lift  her  raptured  voice, 
And  Faith  and  Love,  grown  eloquent,  rejoice; — 
While  in  some  space  remote,  or  covert  nook, 
I  list  awhile  and  con  the  missal-book, 
Or  list  the  breaking  of  th'  inspiring  strain 
As  the  great  organ-tubes  are  filled  again ; 
And  down  the  aisles  and  thro'  the  cloisters  then 
Echo  the  Benediction  and  Amen ! 

IL 

"Oft,  on  a  plat  of  rising'  ground, 
I  hear  the  far-oft"  curfew  sound, 
Over  some  wide-water'd  shore, 
Swinging  slow  with  sullen  roar." 

Or  from  some  steep  o'erlooking  hill  let  me, 
Crowned  with  the  stars,  survey  the  evening  sea. 
And  faintlv  hear  the  dull,  incessant  roar 
Of  beating  waves — the  music  of  the  shore : 
And.  with  the  rising  moon,  toward  yonder  isles 
So  dark,  to  note  how  dimly  Ocean  smiles. 
Till  every  glossy  ripple  from  the  night 
Holds  laughing  up  its  elfin  pearl  of  light. 
Will  be  a  joy  :  and  if  a  breeze  should  come 
From  pine  and  wave,  witli  music  and  with  foam, 
And  wand'ring  milk-white  cloud.  I  will  delay, 
Watching  the  vessels  darkling  on  their  way. 


MEMORIES  OF  *' IL  PEN8ER0S0» 


1j& 


I 


While  suddenly,  like  splendid  gliosts,  they  go 

From  light  to  shadow,  with  their  sails  of  snow. 

Or  let  me,  list'ning  to  new  melodies, 

Watch  the  morn  breaking  over  doubtful  seas, 

From  which  the  misty  veil  uplifteth  slow, 

In  ample  welcome  of  the  sun's  o'erflow ; 

And  hear,  commingling  with  sweet  human  speech, 

The  grating  keel,  the  billow  on  the  beach; 

The  ''Yo!  Heave  ho!"— the  rattling  tackle  hear; 

The  sailor's  song  that,  distant,  seemeth  near. 

Thus,  let  this  sounding  frame  of  skies  and  seas 
And  earth,  combine  all  moving  melodies ; 
And  every  form  and  hue  and  native  line 
Compose  a  picture  with  an  art  divine ; 
That  ear  and  eye,  where'er  the  soul  may  move, 
May  draw  delight,  and  prompt  the  mind  to  love. 


;  :. ! 


m 


# 


SON  a. 


IRT  by  a  silver  belt  of  the  sea. 
On  this  green  island  I  wait  for  thee. 

Pleasant  this  music  of  bird  and  of  breeze. 
Pleasant  the  sun  through  these  sheltering  trees. 

Here  I  wander,  and  dally,  and  dream, 
Lulled  by  the  lip  of  a  musical  stream, 

Waiting  for  eve,  and  thy  coming,— once  more 
Grate,  dearest  keel,  on  my  pebbly  shore! 

Vainly  the  sun,  till  thou  comest,  may  shine ; 
Vainly  the  birds  chant — for  singing  is  thine. 

'J'he  rustle  of  grasses,  and  laughing  leaves. 
That  thou  art  coming,  my  sense  deceives. 

To  break  my  reverie,  dreaming  of  thee. 
Lulled  by  the  chime  of  the  musical  sea. 


;    i 


>  1 


UNSEEN    VISITANTS. 


lOMETIMES  to  th'  earth  ina)-  th'  bright  ones  come, 
Through  th'  azure  deeps,  from  their  starry  home. 
And  oft  in  our  ears  may  their  chorus  swell, 
As  sweet  as  the  murmur  in  ocean's  shell ; 
We  hear  the  music  of  trembling  strings. 
And  feel  the  pulsing  of  viewless  wings. 

When  'mid  the  toil  and  the  heat  of  day, 

The  feet  grow  weary  along  the  way, 

And  the  heavy  burden  of  grief  and  care 

Seems  sometimes  more  than  th'  heart  can  bear, 

We  hear  their  whispers  at  eventide, 

And  our  griefs  are  hushed,  and  our  fears  subside. 

When  deep  in  the  sky  are  the  stars  so  bright, 
And  over  the  earth  comes  the  balmy  night ; 
When  gentle  sleep  on  the  wearied  eye, 
Like  the  beaded  dew  on  the  flowers,  may  lie, 
They  come  to  us,  like  elysian  dreams 
Of  the  gates  of  pear),  and  the  living  streams* 


PT 


i  ■  .'.-i; 


1^   '■■ 
1^     ' 


III 


226 


UNSEEN  VISITANTS, 


But  is  there  a  heart  that  doth  weep  and  bleed, 
And  is  there  a  soul  that  doth  meekly  plead?— 
Lo !  one,  with  a  tender  smile,  shall  come 
Out  through  the  gate  of  her  angel  home ; 
Then  peace — sweet  peace  shall  that  soul  restore. 
And  the  heart  shall  sorrow  and  bleed  no  more. 


/>- 


\ 


LINKS    WRITTEN    IN    AN    ALBUM. 


Q 


IFE  hath  its  depths  of  calm,  its  sweet  repose. 
Though  cradled  in  the  bosom  of  the  storm ; 
And  better, — in  the  bosom  of  the  storm 

The  soul  discerns  Love's  Rose 
Breathing  with  fragrance  all  divinely  warm, 

Upon  the  chilly  upland  of  our  lives. 

Ah,  Life! — ah.  Death!  How  oft  the  spirit  strives 

To  satisfy  itself  which  way  is  best — 

To  live,  or  die — to  toil,  or  be  at  rest: 
To  lie  so  sweetly  where  the  placid  calm 
Breaks  not  in  thuiid'rous  conflict;  where  the  balm 

Of  peace  smooths  the  wild  waters  down. 

Peace! — peace  be  thine!  the  peace  of  sainth'  soul, 
VVhich  time  can  never  touch,  nor  sorrow  mar; 
Be  thine  to  see  God's  snule  in  Fortune's  frowh, 
And  in  the  somb'rest  sky  the  brightest  star. 
What  though  thy  years  are  silent;  passed  afar 

From  fame,  from  earth-born  splendor,  earth-born  pride? 

Man's  history  is  thine, — they  lived, — they  died; 
But  thou  need'st  never  die 

To  that  deep-i«earted  knowledge,  tliat  stiong  love, 
That  sweet  and  gentle-voiced  humility. 

Which  well  may  grace  the  rcahns  of  joy  above; 

And  which  shall  come  to  thee,  through  ways  of  pain, 

As  on  the  parched  groimd  falls  the  gentle  rain. 


I,    ;  , 

i.  i 


)':     i 


|| 


IIOU  fleeting  Surunpr-tirne, 
How  br^'f  thy  vi*  < .  *v  our  norland  clime! — 

Soon  the  tv.ght  c.ov ''?  ♦liou  wearest  on  thy  brow, 
O  languid  maiden,  with  tue  heart  of  fire ! — 
Thou  lay'st  aside, — too  soon  for  our  desire ; 
With  parting  smile  thou  answerest  many  a  vow, 
O  fleeting  Summer-time  I 

Yet,  come !  The  morning  prime 
Rings  welcome,  with  the  chime 
Of  evening!  Earth  for  thee  hath  beauty  now; 
For  thee  buds,  blossoms,  spring, 
For  thee  glows  many  a  wing, 
And  woodland  warblers  sing 
On  many  a  bough. 

Come !  while,  at  evening  still, 
The  moon  glints  o'er  the  hill, 
And  starry  spirits  fill 

And  light  their  lamps ; 
Watch  our  cots'  wreathen  smoke. 
Beneath  this  aged  oak, 
And  hear  the  hoarse  frogs  eroak 

In  ntedy  swamps. 


8UMMEB. 


iil 


Come !  while  thy  breezes  pass 
Over  our  fields  of  grass, 
Swaying  the  twinkling  mass 

Like  salt  sea  waves ; 
While  hedge,  and  stony  close, 
Have  sweet  brier  and  wild  rose, 
And  the  strawberry  grows 

Red  'neath  green  leaves. 

Come!  when  the  locusts  flower; 
When,  in  our  garden  bower, 
Syringas  rich  o'erpower 

The  air  with  sweet ; 
And  when  the  eglantine. 
And  honey-suckle  vine, 
With  morning-glories  twine 

The  window-seat. 

Come !  hail  thy  rustic  bard 
In  shade  of  yon  church  yard. 
Where  mossy  stones  keep  guard 

Above  the  dead ; 
Where  the  tall  spire  doth  throw 
Its  shadow  far  below. 
When  the  sun's  latest  glow 

Is  o'er  it  shed. 

Conn?  I  through  the  dreamy  day 
Watch  the  white  clouds  that  stray 
O'er  the  blue  heaven  away. 

White,  to  the  west; 
And  when  the  sun  retires, 
See  his  long  golden  spires 
Touch  them  with  crimson  fires, 

Brightly  at  rest. 
20 


.  i:l 


280 


SUMMEB, 


Come !  wlion  o'er  niesidovvs  soon 
CIoiuls  rise  at  sultry  noon, 
And  every  wurblcr's  turie 

Suddenly  dies : 
Heaven  hides  her  regal  crown, 
And  dons  her  darkest  frown, 
While  the  bright  bolts  eonie  down, 

liending  the  skies ! 

Come,  Summer!  bring  the  prime 
Of  the  glad  haying  time, 
To  till  thy  golden  clime 

With  its  perfume ; — 
With  mower's  merriest  rhyme. 
Sung  to  their  scythes'  sweet  chime, 
While  the  bee-haunted  lime 

Scatters  its  bloom. 

Fair  season,  swiftly  sped ! — 
Where  art  thou,  wand'rer,  fled. 
Leaving  thy  bright  flowers  dead. 

And  in  the  tomb? 
Could'st  thou  not  longer  stay — 
Fearing  the  Winter  day, 
Dull,  drear,  and  bleak  alway — 

Shrouded  in  gloom? 

Fleet,  fairy  Summer-time! — 
Leavest  us  but  crisp'd  leaf,  and  frosty  rime. 
And  maple's  scarlet  chaplet  for  our  brow? 
O  langorous  maiden,  with  the  heart  of  fire! — 
Thy  lovers  woo  thee  till  thou  dost  but  tire 
Of  all  their  fondness,  and  art  gone — as  now, 
Thou  fleeting  Summer-time ! 


ivOVE  IN  solitude:. 

t  — 

TN  transient  glory  now  the  evenhji?  shines. 
T    As  the  bright  orb  of  day  in  pomp  declines 
Among  the  fiery  draperies  of  tlie  sky : 
Remote  from  man's  abode,  in  this  low  vale, 
Where  streams  sound  I'lear,  and  sylvan  forms  wax  pale, 
I  seek  my  lover,  Natnre's,  dear  caress. 
Her  never-failing  balm  of  loneliness, 
Whereof  my  spirit  drinks. 

Low  breathes  a  sigli 
From  the  deep  heart  of  dryad-haunted  tree, — 
A  sigh,  faint,  sweet  as  love  might  breathe  for  thee, 
Adela, — and  the  stream  that  singeth  by 
Is  like  thy  voice  in  tone  and  melody : — 
Yes,  like  to  thee  the  Spring's  free  waters  speak, 

At  eve  along  the  hollows  of  the  wood. 
When  low  in  heaven  the  moon  is  a  pale  streak; 

Or  silence  broodeth  o'er  the  solitude, — 
Save  that  the  breath  of  Zephyr,  wanderingly. 
Seems  bearing  odorous  record  of  thy  name. 

My  Star  of  Evening  ever  shines  the  same — 
Molt  drop  of  gold  on  her  high  brow  of  pearl. 
Where  late  1  saw  the  sunset  sails  unfurl; 


i 


i: 


'I, 

•s, 

;{! 
IP    'I 


tUi 


232 


LOVE  IN  SOLITUDE. 


And  thou,  ray  Star,  art  ever  leading  rae — 
Thou  go'st  before  me  ever ;  in  my  heart — 
Its  inmost  secret  shrine — thou  ever  art 
Immortal,  as  are  Love  and  Memory. 

The  sunset  embers  lingeringly  expire ; 

Through  their  gray  ashes  pales  the  fiery  glow ; 

And  ever  upward,  silently  and  slow, 
Nigljt  climbs  the  awful  skies  with  feet  of  tire. 
Now  round  thy  thoughts  Sleep's  silken  curtains  close, 
While  Love's  lone  rapture  steals  through  thy  repose, 
Tingeing  thy  dreams,  like  clouds  with  silv'ring  light, 
And  lending  faery  pinions  to  ti  e  night : 
And  fays  through  each  sweet  chamber  of  thy  brain, 
Star-browed,  shall  lead  the  dancing  visions  bright, 
With  hopes  and  longings  in  their  music-train; 
That,  when  I  see  thee,  in  those  beauteous  eyes, 
Long-budding  joys,  like  angels,  may  arise 
From  slumber  on  the  rim  of  Paradise, 
And  beam  on  me  with  promise : — thou  shalt  be 
Sweeter  than  sweetest  solitude  to  me. 

From  thoughts  of  thee  could  I  withdraw  my  mind, 
What  fairer,  fonder  object  could  I  tind? 

Of  thee  are  all  the  dreams  that  haunt  my  sleep : 
Be  what  thou  canst,  and  go  where'er  thou  wilt. 
The  pillars  of  my  soul  in  thine  are  built, 

The  tissue  of  my  life  with  thine  is  woven  deep. 


TO     A     STRAWBERRY     BLOSSOM, 

FOUND     BLOOMING     IN     A     STERILE     PLACE     LATE   IN     NOVEMBER. 

t  

*f *N  pure  but  fruitless  beauty  boru 

T  To  swift  decay, 

I  see  thee,  child  of  summer  morn, 

This  wintry  day ! — 
1  see  thy  virgin  crest  of  white 
Beneath  the  frosfs  impending  blight, 
And  the  chill  shadow  of  the  night. 

Where  thou  nuist  die ; 
For  now  the  whistling  winds  corae  on. 
And  almost  the  dull  day  is  gone 

With  its  faint  sunshine  by. 
Meek,  pearly  flower,  the  frost  hath  power — 

Hath  subtle  skill; 
And  ah!  I  fear  the  hour  is  near 

That  yields  thee  to  its  will ! 

I  come,  a  saddened  friend,  to  thee, 

Who  cannot  save 
The  fairest  flower  of  purity 

That  seeks  the  grave ; 
For  in  my  eye  is  fitful  light, 
Like  the  aurora  of  the  night. 


T^ 


m 


284 


TO  A  STRAWBERRY  BLOSSOM. 


And  on  my  check  the  hectic  blight 

That  tell8  of  deutli ; 
And  tlic  faint  lieart,  whose  life  is  iovc, 
Doth  with  a  lioavy  laboring  move 

Detain  ti»e  Hying  breath  : 
No  magic  art  can  health  impart, 

Or  raise  desire ; 
To  fade,  my  fjite,  all  desolate. 

While  hope  and  life  expire.' 

And  should  1  pluck  thee  from  thy  stem, 

And  make  thee  mine, 
I  should  but  mar  thy  matchless  gem. 

Thy  beauty  tine.^ 
O  ill-timed  birth— belated— lost! 
In  sterile  norland  region  cast. 
Where  brooks  are  skimmed  with  nightlj'  frost  !- 

Why  didst  not  stay 
Till  some  more  genial  summer  hours. 
Wlien,  'mid  warm  beams,  and  fragrant  showers, 

Thou  could'st  thy  charms  display — 
Could'st  softly  ope,  and  smile  with  hope 

To  win  mine  eye! — 
But  bird  nor  bee  shall  visit  thee, 

Who  bloomest  but  to  die! 

So,  cold  and  darksome  seems  my  sky 

Upon  this  day ; 
So,  like  a  dream  at  morning,  I 

May  fade  away : 
Too  delicate  and  sensitive 
Thy  slender  fringe  'mid  frosts  to  live ; 

I.    Written  wlicn  the  author  was  in  a  low  state  of  health. 
a.    Tine,  to  lose.    Burns  has  made  this  word  so  sweetly  familiar  that  it 
must  be  my  excuse  for  using  it. 


TO  A  STRAWBERIiY  BLOSSOM, 


And  so  my  bosom  to  rooclve 

What  gathers  there! 
Hut  is  our  star  an  evil  star? 
O  it  were  better,  better,  far, 

To  (lie,  than  to  despair! 
Let  us  be  gone.    Come!  tliou  brigitt  dawn 

Of  endlesH  day! 
Here  to  remain  can  be  l)ut  pain; — 

'Twere  bliss  to  pass  away. 

So,  floweret,  sweet,  I  leave  thee  here, 

liOne  evermore. 
With  none  to  watch  tliy  wintry  bier; — 

Hut  He.  be  sure. 
Who  put  this  longing  life  in  me, 
And  gave  thy  lowly  lot  to  thee, 
Holds  all  weak  things,  where'er  they  be, 

In  tcnderest  can-; 
Our  sorrows  but  His  love  *  isplay. 
Nor  will  He  on  his  creatures  lay 

More  than  their  hearts  can  bear. 
His  plans  by  far  the  wisest  are ; 

In  His  design 
Kindly  embraced,  thy  fate  is  traced. 

And  so,  dear  flower,  is  mine! 


U-r 


P  t 


OOETHE. 


E'S  dead ! — with  closed  and  sightless  eyes, 

The  mighty  mould  of  Goethe  lies ! 
Poet ! — whose  radiant  words  indite 
Themselves  on  tablets  spirit-bright — 
Thy  entering  sesame  was,  '"Light!" 
How  grand  that  brow,  jnst  left  behind 
Bj  its  celestial  monarch — Mind ! — 
Which,  in  the  sky-reared  pantheon, 
Needeth  not  marble  for  a  throne ! 

O  noble  sonl,  that  brightly  shinest 
Through  mortal  clay  with  light  divinest ! 
When  thou  art  gone  away — 

Brightly  uprisen, — 

Thine  emptj^  prison 
Still  glows  for  one  ecstatic  minute, 
As  if  its  heaven-born  guest  were  in  it; 
Like  some  far  tower,  at  close  of  day, 
Set  in  the  sun's  descending  ray. 
It  looms,  'mid  splendid,  rich  excess, 
Majestical  and  glorious ! 


|.'r"lM 

1  1  ijr 
8     'I 

,'i 


jres, 


St! 


THE     IvADY     IN     THE     PICTURE. 

t  ~ 

I  N  my  room,  from  tlio  nult!  old  wall, 

*|*     Dinged  with  the  dust  of  yeai's.  and  hare. 
Just  where  tlie  day's  Inst  siml)eams  fall, 

The  portrait  hangs  of  a  lady  fair: 
Pale  and  delicate,  stately  and  tall, 

Light  as  a  shower  of  snow  in  the  air; 
Her  eyes  are  stars,  and  they  shine  on  all. 

From  the  billowy  brown  of  her  beautiful  hair. 

No  nympli  of  river  or  liliinl  lake. 

No  fairy  figure  on  forest  lea. 
No  creature  of  dreams,  that  moves  to  make 

The  night-world  beautiful,  bright,  is  she: 
These  are  gone  when  we  start  and  wake ; 

Waking,  her  pictured  face  I  see; 
They  the  haunts  of  the  heart  forsake; 

Slie  ia  more,  as  a  woman,  to  me. 

Look  in  the  wonderful  deeps  of  her  eyes! 

See  the  calm  smile  on  her  face  that  leposes ! 
Watch  the  high  spirit,  bcnignMuMy  wise. 

Tlie  lofty  couriige  her  mien  discloses  I — 
30 


i-ii- 

•  1  ' 

||y 

m 

v:l. 

i 

--■■ 

N 

■J 

m 


238 


THE  LADY  IN   THE  PIG  TUBE. 


A  breathing  song,  in  the  purest  guise, 

A  silent  poem  her  gaze  supposes; 
A  bosom,  birthplace  of  faintest  sighs; 

A  poet's  forehead,  whiter  than  roses. 

She  hath  homes  in  the  land  of  thought, 

She  hath  tarried  in  haunted  spaces ; 
Folded  in  her  sweet  brain  hath  brought 

Odors  and  sounds  of  holy  places : 
And  oft  when  I  come  with  my  heart  o'erwrought, 

Laden  with  frowns  of  darker  faces, 
She  drops  her  light  on  the  shadowed  spot, 

And  lills  my  spirit  with  charms  and  graces. 

Ha!  do  you  listen  to  catch  her  name? 

Matters  not  what  her  name  may  be; 
Yet  it  flies  on  the  wings  of  fame. 

O'er  hill  and  valley,  from  sea  to  sea : 
The  master-minstrel's  enraptured  flame 

Burns  in  her  spii'it,  and  will  be  free; 
Him  she  interprets,  and  wins  acclaim 

For  the  prince,  serene,  of  all  poesy.' 

Beautiful  lights  on  the  dim  old  wall 

Clasp  her  round  with  your  soft  embraces ; 
Softly  over  her  features  fall. 

And  fondly  cover  the  kindest  of  faces ! 
Shine,  my  spirit  to  disenthrall 

Of  the  shadows  that  linger — the  carevvorn  traces; 
While  the  smiling  welcome  she  gives  to  all 
Each  cold  repulse  of  the  world  etfaces. 

I.   Shakespeare. 


!s; 


n  truces ; 


WITH     BURNS. 


"Wear  \vc  not  graven  on  our  he;irts 

The  name  of  Robert  Burns?" — IIalleck. 


HOU,  of  the  maj^ioal  and  deathless  name. 

Who  stand'st  transfigmed  on  the  Mount  of  Fame, 

I  long  have  walked  with  thee. 
'Mid  leafy  woods,  and  tlower-bespangled  plains. 
By  silver  streams — through  all  the  sweet  domains 
Of  peaceful  poesy. 

And  while  I  lingered  by  the  banks  of  A>ji\ 

Or  watched  the  Afton  thread  the  landscape  fair, 

Hearing  the  birds  pour  forth 
Tlie  liquid  music  which  thy  vc^rse  hath  caught, 
With  artless,  smooth  perfection, — I  forgot 

That  thou  hadst  gone  from  earth. 

Thy  form  is  in  the  dust;  but  proudly  thou. 
Arrayed  on  Fame's  subllmest  summit  now. 

Amid  the  lofty  few. 
Hast  still  the  inlluence,  unimpair'd  by  years, 
To  move  the  human  heart  to  smiles  or  tears, 

To  soften  and  subdue. 


',]  s   1 


mrr 


til 


Hi:!! 


«ifi 


'■'■■'! 

.     'if 

■ill: 


240 


WITH  BUBNS. 


Thou  art  the  lover's  bosom-bard,  I  ween ; 
Pure  Highl.and  Mary,  and  fair  Bonnie  Jean, 

Bright  in  thy  glory  stand ; 
Now  richer  blooms  thy  native  si)Ot  of  earth ; 
'Tis  classic  soil,  the  country  of  thy  birth ; 

Thy  home  is  fairyland. 

Thou,  peasant  bard,  art  now  the  poet-peer; 
We  contemplate  tlie  wonders  left  us  here, 

From  thine  innnortal  hand  ; 
An<l  while  the  song  tliat  Nature  sings  is  dear, 
Thy  strain  shall  charm  the  heart,  and  fill  the  ear 

Of  man,  in  every  land. 


SOLITUDE. 

OW  fair  is  the  Niglit  in  lier  palace  of  shade — 

The  dau<;^hters  of  light  that  encircle  her  throne ! 
How  sweet  is  tlie  breathin*?  of  meadow  and  glade, 
Where,  exiled  from  slumber,  I  linger  alone! 

The  sigh  of  the  pine  tree  the  solitude  wakes. 

It  floats,  with  the  song  of  the  whippoorwill,  nigh; 
Its  track  down  the  valley  the  rivulet  take;*. 

And  widens  below  to  embosom  the  sky. 

Thou  murmuring  brooklet!  how  sweetly  subdued 
The  music  thou  pourest  to-night  on  mine  ear! 

Thy  gurgle  and  tinkle  awaken  the  wood. 

And  birds  in  the  tree-tops  are  lull'd  as  they  hear. 

The  moon  rises,  filling  the  forest  with  light ; 

I  watch  her  soft  beams  with  the  shadows  at  play ; 
She  decks  vvith  her  pearls  the  dusk  hollows  of  niglit, 

And  sheds  o'er  the  hill-tops  a  mystical  day. 

Now  deep  in  the  valley  refulgently  gleams 

The  green-border'd  mirror,  wherein  the  stars  shine 

So  restful  its  slumber,  so  constant  their  beams, 
Like  the  sweet  star  of  love  in  this  bosom  of  mine. 


I 


■■■'i 


II 


.L 


II 


l;'^  rJ 


242 


SOLITUDE. 


Alone,  in  m}'^  dreaming  I  turn  to  the  past, 
I  walk  with  heroic  companions  once  more ; 

Or,  rising  in  hope,  I  the  future  forecast, 

Nor  harbor  a  wish  for  tlie  days  that  are  o'er. 

High  visions  inspire  me,  and  lead  me  along, 

And  Thought,  in  a  garment  of  beauty,  comes  forth ; 

I  list  to  the  children  of  fancy  and  song. 

And  walk  with  the  glorious  ones  of  the  earth. 

Ye  stars,  then  it  seemeth  ye  glitter  for  me ! 

And  haunts  me  with  glory  your  lofty  career ; 
And  breezes  that  whisper  in  each  leafy  tree 

Seem  breathing  of  beaut}'  and  love  in  my  ear. 

Thus,  still,  with  the  Night,  in  lier  palace  of  shade, 
An  exile  from  slumber,  I  wander  alone ; 

The  place  of  my  hiding  no  voice  hath  betrayed, 
The  paths  that  1  love  have  been  chosen  by  none. 


'iJ 


ACROSXIC. 


Q 


ROUND  til}'  patlivvay  floats  the  light  Divine, 
Nameless  in  our  harsh  ton<?iie,  but  named  in  Heaven, 
Nearer  its  fount  of  uncreated  Glory. 
In  all  thy  sorrows,  toils,  joys,  hopes  and  fears, 
Eternal  Love  doth  ceaselessly  brood  o'er  thee. 

Fairer  than  sun.  or  moon,  or  beaming  star. — 
Albeit  illumined  by  some  radiant  angel, — 
Is  the  pure  soul  that  thrills — a  harp  jcolian, 
Kinging  forth  harmony  'neath  heavenly  lingers. 
Nearer  to  Thee,  O  God !  life's  source  and  centre. 


"1 


M 


i  !    I 


SONG. 


¥ 


"Mes  chers  anus,  qiiand  je  mourrai 
Plantcz  un  saulo  au  cimctierc; 
J'aime  son  feuillaj^e  cplore, 
Sa  pak'ur  ni'cst  douce  ot  chore, 
Et  son  ombre  sera  Icjjere 
A  la  terre  ou  je  dorniirai." 

-De  Mussel's  Epitaph. 


RIENDS,  when  I  die, 

And  my  grave  is  made. 
Let  me  lie 

'Neath  the  greenwood  shade — 
Alone,  alone. 
Where  the  winds  make  moan, 
And  the  brooks  run  musically, 
Under  leafy  light,  along  the  valley : — 

Where,  save  the  birds,  come  none, 
I  have  loved  to  lie  alone 

In  the  lap  of  the  shaded  lea; 
While  the  white  clouds  sailing  by. 
Flecked  the  green  sod  silently, 
And  the  long  tree-shadows,  creeping 
Where  I  was  sweetly  sleeping, 

Wonld  come  to  cover  me. 


SONG. 


24ft 


Friends,  when  I  die, 

If  the  forests  fade, 
Let  me  lie 

'Neath  the  f  asrie  shade — 
Alone,  alone. 
Where  the  wild  bees  drone. 
And  brooks  run  musically. 
Under  leaf}'  light,  along  the  valley : — 
Beneath  the  minstrel-pine 
1  have  dreamed  these  dreams  of  mine, — 

And  the  willow  is  fair  to  see; 
I  love  its  leafy  tear, 
That  shall  fall  upon  my  bier, 
While  the  wild  vines,  slowly  creeping, 
Where  I  am  lowly  sleeping. 

Will  come  to  cover  me. 


31 


^11 


BY    THE    RIVERSIDK.' 

An  Evening  Reverie. 

I  laid  me  down, — 
Just  when  earth's  dusk-brow'd  mother  bent  to  hush 
Her  nested  children  hid  among  the  leaves— 
Upon  a  «?reen  bank  by  the  riverside, 
Where  I  had  loved  to  loiter,  with  my  feet 
In  reeds  half  hidden.     Brightl}'  o'er  the  river — 
That  pictured  late  the  sunset's  ruddy  fires. 
And,  'mid  the  pomp  of  purple  and  of  gold. 
Brown  shaggy  rocks,  and  shrubs  upon  the  shore — 
Quick  fireflies  flitted  ;  while  the  banks  beyond 
Hid  in  green  dusk  of  every  tangled  thicket 
Their  pulses  soft  of  wildly-wand'ring  light. 
Secreting  and  disclosing. 

I.  An  episode  of  my  life  in  Pembroke,  Me.  Our  home  was  in  what  was 
called  the  "English  Village,"  and  near  a  cheerful,  sunny  little  river,  bear- 
fng  the  euphonious  Indian  name  of  Pennamaquan.  Below,  like,  and  yet  un- 
like, Lowell's  Beaver  Brook,  it  got  choked  in  among  the  drudging  wheels  of 
a  black,  fiery  iron  mill ;  but  its  upper  waters  became  quite  romantic  in  their 
circuitous  wanderings  among  the  woods.  By  its  side  I  sometimes  whilcd  a 
quiet  hour  away,  of  a  summer  evening;  or,  with  punt.ind  paddle,  sought  the 
waterlilies  on  its  tranquil  bosom. 


I  •  "mi^rxii- 


H  iili 


BY  THE  RIVERSIDE, 


247 


There  I  saw 
An*  Indian  leave  his  wigwam  'ncatli  tlie  trees, 
Where  yon  firs  darlcen,  and  the  voieefiil  pines 
Spread  their  deep  umbrage,  and  the  white  slim  birches 
Cluster  like  maidens  out  on  holidays : 
He  trod  the  path  down  to  the  tranquil  water, 
Shot  his  canoe  upon  its  glassy  bosom. 
And  lost  his  gliding  form  in  gleamy  distance. 


There  flowers  I  saw  witli  upturned  bells  of  gold; 

White  lilies,  lying  lapt  in  sweetness  there. 

With  long  dank  stems,  and  water-lying  leaves, 

I  saw,  like  nuns,  in  fragrant  saintlincss. 

Aloof  from  touch  of  a  profaning  finger: 

And  on  a  little  island,  tliat  once  floated. 

The  reeds  and  flowering  grasses  rankly  grew. 

Evening  had  soothed  my  heart;  and  now  my  ear 
Was  soothed  by  music  stealing  down  the  stream. 
From  farmhouse  distant,  where  my  friend  '  and  I 
Landed  one  eve,  and  made  with  Andy  merry. 
But  the  deliglitful  scene,  all  ligiits  withdrawn. 
Darkened,  and  still  a  shadowier  veil  was  drawn, 
Over  the  river,  and  the  hills  beyond  me; 
Over  the  home  so  newly,  strangel}'^  mine. 
Where  sweetest  life,  anti  costliest  treasure  were; 
Over  tne  meadows,  rich  and  daisy-white. 
And  garnished  with  the  gold  of  butteieups; 
Over  the  village  street  that  lay  behind  me. 
With  the  sniall  chapel  and  Us  turrets  grey. 
Snugly  beyond  the  iuterveuing  grove 
That  stooped  toward  my  bank.     I  could  but  bear 


I.  Major  Theakeston,  of  Halifax,  N.  S.,  who  visited  nic.  We  crossed, 
one  evening^,  to  the  home  of  a  parishioner,  where  we  did  a  deal  of  laughing 
over  the  adventures  of  Handy  Andy. 


BY  THE  RIVERSIDE. 


The  measured  dipping;  of  some  distant  oar; 
I  dimly  saw  the  little  boat's  white  side 
Green-striped,  and  anchored  on  the  wave  before  me, 
And  dimly  saw  the  twinkling  starg  reflected. 

I  fell  to  deeper  musing.    In  that  hour 
My  heart's  home  faded  too, — the  sacred  spot 
Where  dwelt  my  v/ife  and  babe  forsook  the  scene. 
Melting  away  from  memory.    'J'hen,  instead, 
On  other  hills  and  rivers  I  was  gazing — 
Scenes  not  less  fair,  and  dearer  than  all  others — 
With  a  vague  yearning  after  vanished  days. 
There  was  the  cottage,  silent  now,  that  once 
Uttered  again  the  glee  of  sportive  children. 
And  nestled  them  to  sleep  at  eventide : 
I  heard  my  mother's  voice,  and  saw  her  smile, 
And  look  familiar  love  upon  her  boy : 
My  father  bowed  his  head,  as  was  his  wont, 
And  sighed;  then  looking  up,  surprised,  he  rose. 
Rejoiced ;  while  through  the  door  my  sister  came. 
With  a  glad  cry,  to  meet  me. 

Then  a  touch 
Upon  my  arm  dispelled  my  reverie. 
And  brought  me  to  reality  again. 
'^Come  lor  the  night-dews  fall,  and  damps  arise!" 
There  stood  my  wife,  with  all  her  old-time  love 
And  trust,  and  there  was  our  sweet  little  one ! — 
All  wonder-lit,  her  bright  blue  baby-eyes 
Rebuked  my  dreamy  wandering— yearning  vn' 
Far  from  my  chosen  and  my  dearly  lo^ 
So,  hand  in  hand,  amid  the  fields  we  wj 
To  our  white  cottage-nest,  and  left  behind 
The  sweet-breathed  banks  of  the  star-glimmeriug  river. 


5  me, 


ne, 


>9e, 
iime, 


se!" 
ve 

n — 


Iv,  ,^  river. 


TO-MORROW. 

•'Thou  art  a  vai^aryof  the  mind, 
And  they  who  seek  tnee  sliall  not  find." 

H.  L.  Spencer. 

^<©  ~" 

*fg\OAST  not  thyself  of  to-morrow,"  for  thou  k  no  west 

not  if  the  d.ay 
Will  bring  thee  the  cloud  und  the  shadow,  or  the  churin 

of  the  sunny  ray, — 
Whether  'tis  joy  or  sorrow  that  upon  its  hastening  wings 
This  transient,  trusted  to-morrow  to  thy  waiting  spirit 

brings. 

''Boast  not  thj'self  of  to-morrow:''  thou  may'st  droam 

of  music  and  mirth, 
Yet  bury  th}'  face  in  anguish,  as  tliou  slnkcst  to  tlie 

earth ; 
Thou  waitest  ior  the  bridal,  where  the  marriage  feast  is 

spread, 
But  the  bright  eye  of  to-morrow  may  look  upon  thee — 

dead. 

"Boast  not  thyself  of  to-morrow;"  nor  say,   if  thou 

chance  to  roam, 
"I  shall  see,  by  another  sunrise,  the  green  hills  of  my 

home :" 


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250 


TO-MOBBO  W, 


The  hills  may  stand  in  the  sunshhie  that  brightens  thy 

cottage  floor, 
Yet  there  may  be  lamentation  for  the  one  who  comes  no 

more. 

''Boast  not  thyself  of  to-morrow:"  if  thou  art  a  poet- 
soul, 

Whose  delight  hath  been  wine  and  revel!  for  the  wit- 
provoking  bowl 

Cease  not  to-day  thy  singing;  leave  the  beaker's  ruddy 
flow; 

For  to-morrow  the  sons  of  music  may  be  silent  and  laid 
low. 

''Boast  not  thyself  of  to-morrow;   but  ere  they  have 

flown  away 
Go, gather  the  store    of  blessing  thj'  God  allots  to-day; 
Keach  out  thy  hand  with  liealing  for  the  weary  heart 

and  sore; 
If  thou  waitest  for  to-morrow,  it  may  need  thine  aid  no 

more. 

"Boast  not  thyself  of  to-morrow;''  but,  with  calm  antl 

sober  thought. 
Adjust  thy  restless  spirit  to  life's  ever-changing  lot; 
To-day  dwell  in  the  sunshine,  and  scatter  thy  beams  as 

free ; 
For  to-morrow  the  sun  ariseth,  but  lie  may  not  shine  for 

thee.' 

1.  One  evening,  while  Robert  Burns  was  at  Brow,  on  the  Solway  short-, 
he  took  tea  at  tlie  lioiiie  of  Mrs.  Crai^;,  widow  of  the  minister  of  Kiithvi'ii. 
He  had  come  there,  in  the  extremity  of  disease,  for  sea  bathing;  and  the 
sympathy  of  the  good  lady  drew  him  uitliin  her  i|uiet  retreat.  While  the 
little  group  sat  at  table,  the  setting  sun  shone  full  through  the  window,  \i\vn\ 
the  jjoet's  face.  Thinking  the  light  might  be  too  strong  for  him.  Miss  C'raii; 
arose  to  drt)p  a  blind  or  liraw  a  curtain,  wlien  the  poet  interposed.  "Thank 
you,  i»y  dear,"  with  a  smile  of  the  sweetest  benignity,  "for  your  kind  attiii- 
tion;  but  oh,  let  him  shine!  He  will  not  shine  long  for  me."  This  utter- 
ance, than  which  few  have  been  more  pathetic,  sugge.  ,ed  the  lines  above. 


"tm 


TO    S.     L. 

TRANGE  star!  that,  mellow'd  i:i  the  dark  bhie  deep. 

A  golden  glury  pourest  down! — 
Lone  isle,  that  gleainest  in  a  restless  sea 
Of  tossing  flood  and  foam. — 
My  soul,  with  weary  wing  a-rest  on  thee. 
Eternally  hath  found  a  home! 

Let  me  forever  lean  on  thy  pure  soul. 

And  listen  to  thy  music  deep — 

No  mere  wild  discords  of  'i'ime's  harp — control 

Grand  thouglits,  that  thrill  and  sweep. 

In  the  love-guarded  arbors  of  our  life. 

Lo!  Earth's  hoarse-nuirmuring  floods  of  passion  roll. 

Lost  on  thy  life's  white  shore. 

Encircled  by  my  life  forevermore. 


i{7-<>jfeO- 


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A     ?vl  O  N  O  D  Y, 

On  our  Beloved  Poet,  Henry  W.  Longfellow. 

HE  windy  Marcli  with  trumpet  slirill, 

Pipes  his  rude  phiiiit  tlirouf^h  lealless  trees, 
Cer  marbled  Auburn's  burial  hill. 

With  sharpness  from  the  sorrowing  seas; 
Tlian  organ-blast  a  wilder  strain. — 
Meet  music  for  the  Poet's  burial  train. 


Swift  harpers  of  a  stormy  choir. 
They  sweep,  with  many  an  angry  wail. 

And  litfully,  their  viewless  lyre; 
Their  numbers  rise,  and  faint,  and  fail : 

Perchance  their  airj^  dirges  rise 
O'er  him  whose  well-tuned  lute  all  silent  lies. 

Poorer,  for  dearth  of  love  and  song. 
Shall  Spring  unbind  her  tresses  free ; 

And  circling  Cliarlos  shall  glide  along 
In  pensive  silence  to  the  sea;' 

I.  Over  the  door  of  the  old  Cray^ic  Ilciuse  the  elin-trecs  will  cast  tiiiir 
shadows,  and  at  autuinii-tido  scatter  their  crisping'  leaves;  but  he  will  pass 
under  them,  to  enter  that  portal  no  more.  Silently  the  river  of  his  song  will 
seek  the  sea,  as  when  he  loved  and  looked;  but  he  is  no  more  beside  it. 


m 


A  MONODY. 


2A8 


The  elms  with  leaves  sluill  shade  his  door 
In  vain — the  gentle  Poet  comes  no  more. 

Bnt  can  the  Minstrel-ninsic  die. 

Or  fainting,  fall  from  notes  so  clear 
To  silence — as  the  cuckoo's  cry,' 

'Mid  song-tides  of  the  rising  year? 
No  I  conld  the  mind  forget,  we  own 
From  the  tonch'd  heart  each  dear  familiar  tone. 

And  can  my  heart  unmindful  be 
Of  him  who  linked  my  land  with  Fame, 

And  wreathed  with  deathless  poesy 
Acadie's  sweet,  unstoried  name; 

Whose  liquid  numbers  did  (Mitrance 
My  youth-time  with  the  splendors  of  romance? 

Still  tears  confess  the  moving  spell. 

While  live,  in  numbers  \w:e  and  tine. 
The  mournful  love  of  (Jabritd. 
The  sorrow  of  Evangeline — 
That  wandering,  sad,  unmated  Eve, 
Truest  of  hearts  that  e'er  had  cause  to  grieve. 

What  though  we  may  behold  no  more 

The  reverend  "•  head  that  all  men  knew;'"'' 

That  wild  March  winds  sing  dlrg(;s  o'er 
The  sod  that  hides  him  fiom  our  view? 

Each  memory  with  his  song  is  rife; 
Ours  is  the  treasure  of  bis  deathless  life: — 


ll  cast  tluir 
Ihe  will  p.i;-^ 
|is  song  will 
side  it. 


A  life,  complete  in  breadth,  in  length. 

To  each  divinest  instinct  true; 
Where,  on  the  rock  of  manly  strength. 

Each  llower  of  gi'acc  and  beauty  grew; 
A  life,  serenely  fortmiate. 
By  sorrow  ushered  in  to  its  supi'cme  estate. 

1.  "  As  the  cuckod  is  in  June 
Heard,  not  regarded." 

— .SlIAKR.Sl'EAKE. 

2.  ()  good  gray  li<.'ad  tliat  :ill  men  knew. 

— Ti:nn\s()n.     OJr  Duke  of  \Vi'Ui"i,'loit. 

32 


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STKLLA. 


E 


O!  palino^  from  tho  glowinoj  front  of  dawn, 
The  morning  star  serenely  sinks  away ! — 
I  gaze  upon  the  beaut}' just  withdrawn, 

And  bless  the  bright-eyed  herald  of  the  day. 

So.  Stella!  thou  art  lost  in  blaze  of  Heaven, 
And  God's  light  beanieth  where  thy  circlet  shone; 

Thou  wert  to  our  delight  too  briefly  given — 
A  transient  beauty  o'er  our  pathway  thrown. 

We  never  knew  how  precious  was  the  ray 
Of  purest  lustre  in  thy  constant  eye. 

Until  it  ceased  to  gild  our  lowly  way — 
Like  star-light,  hid  in  the  eftulgent  sky. 

Thy  faded  charms  appear  more  heavenly-fair 
As  memory  doth  each  beauteous  tint  renew; 

Thy  virtues  shine  with  lustre  still  more  rare, 
As  in  the  sunbeam      ines  the  early  dew. 

And,  as,  when  stars  are  j^one,  the  dew  remains 
Some  sparkling  moments  on  the  iiowerj'  lea; 

I.  Daughter  of  E.  H.  and  Maria  Spraguc,  of  Petnbroke,  Mc. 


STELLA. 


255 


So,  while  our  own  lier  blissful  orbit  gains, 
The  tear  of  grief  on  Sorrow's  cheek  shall  be. 

And,  as  the  sun  soon  drinks  each  dewy  cup, 
So  in  some  clearer  light  our  woes  we  drown, 

While  on  thy  brow,  so  highly  lifted  up. 
Our  faith  discerns  a  starry-jewelled  crown. 

Shine  in  that  sphere  to  which  our  hearts  aspire, 
Stella! — our  star! — forever  moving  on, 

While  mornings  break,  and  envious  shades  retire, 
And  the  eternal  day  begins  to  dawn. 


f.'  ■ 


QIIvBERT     HAVEN. 


ih 


(3 


DIEU! — Thy  comrades  catch  a  siglit 
Of  th}'^  pale  face — thy  form  they  see, 

Borne,  bleeding,  from  the  glorious  tight — 
O  hero,  crown'd  with  victory! 

Gone !    from  the  vanguard  of  the  host — 

Thou  foremost  in  heroic  days ! 
Honor  of  thee  shall  make  her  boast, 

And  Valor  wanton  in  tliy  praise. 

No  more,  with  loved  companions  nigh, 
Shalt  thou  their  kindred  souls  inspire. 

While,  rapt,  thy  mind  asoendest  liigh, 
To  capture  Thought's  Promethean  lire  : — 

No  more  in  Song's  divine  arcades 
Thou  ling'rest.  with  the  tuneful  Powers; 

No  more,  'neatli  academic  shades. 
Thou  gath'rest  Truth's  immortal  flowers. 

Yet  memory  bids  us  see  thee  still, 
Thou  comrade  in  the  stormy  strife! 

Cheerful  of  heart,  and  ttrm  of  will. 
The  light  and  force  of  many  a  life. 


a 


GILBERT  HAVEN. 


967 


With  sprightly  wit,  and  manly  sense, 
Amidst  thy  peers  thou  well  couldst  shine ; 

Arrows  of  keen  intelligence, 
And  quick,  instinctive  thought,  were  thine. 

And  when  thou  saw'st  the  proud  engage 
To  grind  the  poor  and  crush  the  weak, 

Thy  heart  was  filled  with  '^  noble  rage," 
Thy  tongue  was  not  afraid  to  speak. 

Prophetic  faith  to  thee  was  given 
In  freedom  for  the  toiling  thrall, 

Ere,  to  its  dark  foundation  riven. 

Thou  savv'st  the  house  of  bondage  fall. 

Friend  of  the  slave  I  his  wrongs  and  woes 
Provoked  in  thee  the  generous  llanie; 

How  many  a  dusky  bosom  glows 
At  sound  of  thy  familiar  name ! 

They  loved  thee  most  who  most  could  prove. 
Who  saw  the  sunsliine  in  thy  face ; 

The  foe  who  could  thy  prowess  move, 
Knew  thy  benign,  chivalric  grace. 

Thy  conscience  was  thy  king;  thy  God 
Held  in  thy  life  unbroken  sway; 

Thy  words  and  deeds,  at  home,  abroad, 
Were  open  as  the  light  of  day. 

For,  in  thj'^  life's  ascending  spring, 

When  lightly  flows  the  quick'ning  blood. 

Love  lit  her  flame,  and  faith  took  wing, 
And  thou  wert  truly  born  of  God. 

Thou  saw'st  the  years,  at  distance  hailed. 
Wherein  so  many  vaiidy  sigh, — 


I 


YV: 


258 


OILBEBT  HAVEN. 


"  The  fountains  of  my  youth  have  failed, 
And  all  my  joyful  springs  are  dryl" 

Patience  was  thine,  to  work  and  wait 
The  calm  approach  of  Truth's  great  day ; 

While  deep  within,  instead  of  hate, 
The  seeds  of  hope  and  mercy  lay. 

Not  greenest  wreath  by  Pallas  given. 
Could  be  thy  toil's  supreme  reward; 

Thy  hopes  and  aims  were  raised  to  heaven. 
Thy  life  was  hid  in  Christ  the  Lord. 

Well  couldst  thou  bear  the  trying  hour. 
The  toiling  heart,  the  throbbing  brain; 

Thy  life  sprang  up  to  richer  flower 
From  deepest  energy  of  pain. 

And  yet  thou  didst  not  linger  here 

Till  all  the  joy  of  life  is  o'er. 
Till  sweetest  strain  shall  vex  the  ear, 

And  Music's  daughters  charm  no  more. 

But  when  thy  work  was  done,  indeed, 
Thy  star-bright  crown  did  not  delay; 

The  chariot,  and  the  fiery  steed, 
Caught  thy  exulting  soul  away. 

Hard  was  the  strife,  but  rest  is  sweet — 

The  calm  of  joy  forevermore; 
"  Good-night ! '"     We  soon  again  shall  meet. 

And  triumph  when  the  night  is  o'er. 

Thy  feet  are  on  the  sunlit  height ; 

Thine  eyes  the  inner  Glory  see ; 
Champion  of  freedom,  truth,  and  right, 

Forever  thou,  thyself,  art  free ! 

I-    "Good-night!"    he  said  to  one  leaving  his  chamber;  "when  we  meet 
again,  it  will  be,  "Good-morning!" 


i'l 


ON     BISHOl*    JANES. 

HOLT,  faithful  servant  of  the  One  of  Old. 

Unchangeably  the  same, — thy  years  flow  on, 

With  His.  unspent  forever;  thou  hast  gone 
Into  that  temple  high  whose  gates  are  gold, 
To  see  His  face  who  with  a  love  untold 

Thou  here  didst  worship.     Xow,  O  may  we  feel 

The  vital  hejit  of  such  unfailing  zeal 
As  fired  thy  heart,  and  made  thy  words  so  bold ! 
Thine  are  the  well-spent  life  and  reverend  name. 
That  to  the  righteous  cause  shall  bring  no  shame. 

That  bears  the  searching  light  of  God's  own  day. 
Our  hearts,  our  memories,  hold  a  shrine  for  thee; 

And  thou  hast  shed  a  lustre  o'er  the  way 
That  leadeth  on  to  immortality. 


-^■ 


i)(3<>-^C^ 


THE    3URIAL    OK    OARKIKLO. 


A  low  sound,  a  mournful  hrc:itliin<j  through  the  valleys — is  it  the  night, 
wind?  A  niurnuir,  as  of  a^oni/ed  roinnlainl — is  it  the  ehoki'd  stream?  A 
seemiiiff,  as  of  niyriad  fallin^j  tears — is  it  the  rain?  A  sound  of  many  hells, 
at  inidniijht — are  they  for  inournini^-,  or  juhilee?  Alas,  they  are  all  voices  to 
tell  lis  that  the  sulVerinj^s  of  our  beloved  are  over! 


I. 


0 


SOUND !    'Tis  the  tolling  in  air 

Of  invisible  bolls  ! — 
"lis  a  murmur  of  gritif  and  despair. 

That  arises,  and  swells — 
A  murmur  of  weeping,  and  deep 

Multitudinous  sighs, 
O'er  the  pale  face,  now  fallen  asletip. 

With  tir  sad  lidded  eyes ; — 
Deep  boom  of  the  cannon,  so  dread, 

O'er  the  Continent  borne; 
For  the  Hope  of  the  Nation  is  dead, 

And  his  countrymen  mourn. 

II. 

Low  anthems,  and  dirges  are  simg. 
Where  the  organs  throb  sweet; 
And  the  garlanded  sables  are  hung 


THE  BURIAL  OF  GARFIELD. 


961 


In  long  glooms  through  tho  street; 
And.  floated,  declining  from  high, 

Tlie  stripes  and  the  stars ; 
While  onward,  dark-folded,  still  fly 

The  funeral  cars : — 
For  our  Captain  is  fallen — is  slain! — 

Our  illustrious  Head ! 
And  a  nation,  heart-hrolien,  in  pain. 

Bears  onward  its  dead. 


rl'::i 


IvU. 


it  the  ni>?lu- 
i  stream?  A 
f  iniiiiy  bells, 
:  iiU  voices  to 


III. 

The  hrave  and  tlie  loyal  have  come ; 

And  there  sound,  in  the  street, 
Tlie  dull  mullled  roll  of  the  drum, 

And  the  marching  of  feet — 
The  marching  of  feet,  as  they  bear 

The  Cliief  to  his  rest; 
And  accents  that  burtlien  the  air. 

Of  a  people  distressed  — 
Of  a  people  bereft,  and  bested. 

And  bewildered  with  pain! 
For  a  coward's  right  hand  is  naade  red, 

And  their  Captain  is  slain.' 

IV. 

Let  the  grave  of  our  Comrade  be  spread, 

As  the  couch  of  a  bride. 
With  blossoms  the  s«;ason  hath  shed 

For  his  burial-tide; 
And  strong  as  the  song  of  the  sea. 

Fame  murmur  his  praise. 
Who,  bright  and  immortal  to  be, 

Hath  so  ended  his  days ; — 
Whose  wreath  shall  be  green  as  the  pine, 

When  its  leaf  is  renewed  ; 
While  Truth  hath  a  holier  shrine. 

For**  the  chrism  of  his  blood. 

1.  Tliis  was  written  on  the  night  before  Garfield's  burial,  and  while  the 
fever  of  indig^natiun  and  grief  was  still  burning. 

2.  Because  of. 

33 


■!»m 


f%r.»» 


i 


IN     PvIBMORIAM.' 


0 


S  when  aonie  phmet,  ••wheolod  in  lior  ellipse," 
Through  5'oiKler  purple  roahus  of  tin;  sky. 
In  sudden  contlHgration  flames  on  high 
The  blackened  night,  then  fades  in  Death's  eclipse  ;- 

As  the  strong  bark  that  leaves  the  happy  shore, 
To  sail  o'er  perfumed,  lofty-sounding  seas. 
Feels,  for  a  lleeting  hour,  the  favoring  breeze. 

Then,  cyclone-wrapt,  sinks  down  foreverniore ; — 

So  smiling  Hope,  with  starry  wand,  led  on 
Thy  radiant  soul  to  run  a  high  career; 
But  soon,  alas!   Hope  sank  upon  tliy  bier. 

And  ceased  Anticipation's  antiphon  ; 
While  sad-eyed  Pity  dropt  a  sacred  tear, 

Then  beam'd  a  smile,  that  heavenly  bliss  was  won. 

O  mystery  of  life ! — the  strong,  the  brave, 
Chilled  in  Hope's  spring  by  Desolation's  breath! 
Large  heart!  that,  butteting  the  waves  of  death, 

Nobly  resigned  the  life  thou  could'st  not  save ; 

).     Written  by  my  brother  on  the  death  of  a  college  mate. 


IN  ME  MO  HI  AM. 


268 


Low-roverent  before  thy  iini  we  bow, — 

No  ashes  of  ignoble  chiy  lie  there ! 

Thine  was  as  strong  a  soul,  and  manhood  fair, 
As  e'er  relentless  Fate  hath  stricken  low : 

Thou,  in  wliose  eye  briglit  liglits  of  reason  burned, 
Didst  add  the  higher  F'aitli  tliat  crowns  tin;  man  : 
A  sonl  conformed  to  (jod's  own  niatclilesH  plan, 

The  lower  goals  of  world-ambition  spurned : 

Thou,  rauch-loved  friend,  to  loftier  circles  borne, 

Liftest  thy  licad  to  the  eternal  morn. 


I    1    -  i  !  I 


Mi 


m 

■Itii 


i  ■' 


A    F'OET. 
I. 


P 


O)  I  !   with  heart  of  dove-like  tenderness. 
And  rainbow  smiles,  hung  in  a  mist  of  tears, 
How  hast  thou  glorified  our  weary  years, 
And  sweetened  more  our  lessening  cup  of  bliss! 
Thy  fiery-fruited  mind  gave  thought  a  dress 

Immortal;  and  thy  rapture  singeth  on 

Adown  the  generations,  like  a  swan 
On  a  smooth  stream ;  and  wreaths  that  did  not  press 

Thy  living  tenjples,  we  will  place  to-day 

Upon  thy  tomb.     Let  ev'ry  bloss'my  spray 
And  greenest  leaf  be  thine :  do  thou  possess 

Our  hearts,  and  sing  us  an  immortal  laj"^ ! 
Whatever  song  shall  die,  thou  canst  not  be 
Forgotten  in  the  realms  of  Poesy ! 

11. 

Thou,  by  the  wayworn  wight— whose  stinging  smart, 
From  the  sharp  faDg  of  avaricious  pride, 

Thy  manly  words  assuage — remember'd  art; 
And  thou  in  gentle  bof-oms  wilt  abide, 

For  thou  hast  been — sweet  laureate  of  the  heart ! — 
By  firesides  where  the  humble  only  dwell; 


A  POET. 


And  tlioii  their  sorrows  and  their  joys  oanst  tell, 
And  hast  with  tlieni  a  sympathetic  part. 
The  friendless  have  a  friend  i)  thee,  and  thon 

Hast  for  th'  oppressed  raised  an  indignant  voice; 
Thon  hast  ennobled  the  uidettered  brow, 

And  stirred  the  peasant-sonl  to  loftier  choice ; 
Hast  opened  the  seal'd  heart — the  frosted  mind, 
And  sung  the  strains  that  unify  mankind. 


m'%' 


(0 


OTJR    THREE    SONS.' 


HERE  are  the  throe,  who.  not  so  long  ago, 
With  ghidness  filled  our  tranquil  suminer-hoinc;? 
Their  blossoming  youth— tlieir  faces"  roseate  glow — 
Their  eyes,  by  spirits  lit  as  pure  as  snow — 

Their  voices,  as  when  birds  in  springtime  comeV — 

O,  where  the  father's  pride,  the  motlnu's  joy, 
Adorned  with  beauty  of  their  llowering  years? 

A  wintry  mound — a  book — some  broken  toy 

Alone  remains,  of  each  beloved  boy. 
AVhile  desolate  Rachel  sits  alone,  in  tears! 

Yes!  they  are  gone,  whose  promise  seemed  so  fair. 

Who  without  tears  can  bo,  remembered  not! 
So  ever  fades  the  bejiutiful  and  rare. 
As  sea-born  splendors — glories  of  the  air. 

Or  passing  strains,  that  di<',  ami  are  forgot. 

And  so,  our  beauteous  sons — how  doubly  dear 

That  they  no  moi<^  bring  gladness  to  our  eyes! — 
Were  but  as  parting  strangers,  pausing  her(», 
Then,  with  bright  faces,  hastening  to  appear 
Before  the  smiling  Father  in  the  skies. 


I.  Children  of  Hiram  and  Harriet  Dewinjf,  Needham,  Mass. 


OUR   THREE  SONS. 


267 


Gone  !  and  the  darkness  falls  about  our  way. 

And  shadows  of  the  grave  boclond  us  quite : 
O  Arm  of  Strength  I— so  (h-eary  is  the  day, 
And  we  so  weak  have  grown — thy  safety  lay 
Around  us,  and  bestow  a  little  light! 

Gone! — the  remembered  faces!— the  sweet  sound 
Of  household  voices!— vanish'd  each  clear  gem! 

We  start  from  reverie,  to  look  aroimd. 

And  see  our  heart's  flowers  scattered  on  the  ground. 
Our  lilies,  severed  from  th«»  parent  stem! 

Our  stars  of  liope  they  are ;   now  set  on  high, 
To  shine  in  twiliglit  memory  evermon': 

The}'  cannot  change,  their  youtii  can  never  die. 

Their  fair  fresh  faces  fade  i-ot  from  the  eye, 
As  though  they  dwelt  and  sorrowed  on  this  shore. 

They  pined  to  breathe  .i  pinei-,  sweeter  air. 

They  longed  to  look  on  a  diviner  day ; 
So,  with  brief  pain,  such  as  the  good  can  1)ear. 
And  heaven-lit  smiles,  that  lightened  our  despair. 

Their  gentle,  sutt'ering  spirits  went  away. 

O  patient  eyes!   that  ne'ei-  again  imclose — 

Though  oft  at  midnight  ours  must  wake  to  we«'p — 
No  length'nlng  anguish  robs  yoii  of  i«'p<)se : 
Dear  well-trieil  hearts,  now  healed  of  human  woes. 
H«*st  ye! — "Jle  giveth  his  beloved  sleep." 

Ah.  long,  thou  sober-hued  autumnal  day. 

>S.ialt  thou  in  memory  live.  when,  deep-opprest, 
We  l)ore  Our  Kdwurd's  form  along  the  \>ay, 
And  laid  it  reverent  in  its  house  of  clay. 

And  left  it  lying  in  unbroken  rest! 

i'iie  russet  fiu'f  Is  rounded  <»'er  his  grav<'; 
Above,  the  trees  their  naked  arms  oulspi<'ad ; 


m^ 


'i; 


268 


OUB   THREE  SONS. 


And  autumn  winds  the  pines'  dark  branches  wave, 
As  though  they  mourned  that  one  so  fair  should  liave 
A  place  so  early  with  the  quiet  dead. 

Yet  say  not,  dead ! — they  are  not  dead  who  go 

To  God — who  come  to  hills  of  light — 
Who  share  the  joys  the  first-born  spirits  know — 
Who  walk  in  raiment  like  the  glistering  snow. 

'Mid  flowery  paths  that  never  suffer  blight ; — 

Whose  eyes,  without  the  burning  flow  of  tears. 

Forever  look  on  their  liedeenier's  face: — 
They  are  not  dead  !— Behold  I  where  each  appears. 
Above  decay,  and  changefid  lingering  years: 
Surely  they  live,  who  find  that  holy  place! 

They  are  not  dead — but  ah,  support  our  faith, 
Dear  Lord  ! — for  dim  the  way  by  which  they  go ; 

Unseen,  the  path  that  winds  the  vale  of  death ; 

But  what  we  know  not  now,  the  Saviour  saith. 
With  joyful  hearts,  we  may  hereafter  know. 

So.  to  th'  accustouj'd  burdens  we  nujst  bear. 

From  the  deep  chalice  of  our  grief  we  turn  ; 
Its  aloe-wine  hath  bahn  of  healing  rare — 
Sweet  balsams,  mingled  by  the  Father's  care. 
That  turn  our  tears  to  sweetness,  as  we  mourn. 

'Tis  well  with  you,  dear  sons — nor  dear  the  less 
That  we  can  see  you  in  tliis  world  no  n^o.e! — 

Peace  lives  with  you,  and  Love,  and  Jlighteousness, 

For  sin  comes  never  to  that  holy  place. 

Nor  Death  can  darken  that  enchanted  shore. 

Frank !  Frederick !  Edward  I—sons  of  earth,  whom  God 

Hath  raised  to  heaven— adieu !  till  we  shall  meet. 
To  part  no  more  ! — to  spread  II is  praise  abroad, 
Who  spilt  for  us  on  earth  His  hallowed  blood; 
To  cast  our  crowns  before  His  shining  feet! 


DIRQE. 

AliK  I   the  iintliein  .iiul  tlio  prayor 
Biirtlieii  all  the  sliimhenii;2^  air; 
Doth  the  hell 
Softly  knell ! 
List,  the  story  of  the  leaf. 
Fading  enil)leni,  sad  and  hrief, — 
Thou,  the  withering  leaf. 

Hear  the  solemn  ritnal  read, 
Mournfully,  above  the  dead : 

Tones  of  bell 

Softly  swell ! 
Lord,  have  mercy,  lovv  he  salth ; 
'Midst  of  life  we  are  in  death — 

Save  us,  Lord,  in  death ! 


See!  the  train,  with  constant  pace, 
iJear  the  dead  to  his  own  place : 

MulHed  bell 

Distant  swell  I 
84 


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ft' 


*;!< 


■■■:!?,'■ 


>il    Ji 


270 


DIBOE. 


Drooping  mourner,  wan  with  woe, 
To  tlie  giave  in  slleiioe  go, — 
Thither  must  we  go ! 

Chant  a  paRan,  while  the  tomb 
For  its  tenant  maketh  room  : 

All  is  well 

Where  they  dwell ! 
Christ  the  TiOrd  therein  has  lain, 
Now  he  lives  in  Heaven  again  ; — 

These  shall  rise  again. 

Burial  dirge,  and  burial  prayer : 
Here  no  more,  forever  there ; 

Tones  of  bell 

Sweetly  swell! 
Here  no  more,  it  soon  must  be, 
And  forever  there^  with  thee ; — 

Hail!  Eternity! 


It' 


ff^ 


t^^f^^x^ 


m 


^ 


Songs  of  D^zmoTu^  and  3(onie. 


'^ 


^^^^^^^ 


^ 


It- '  I 


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i,  1    i 

i    •     '< 

i' 

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PROEM, 


I^UILDEK,  rear  me  a  home; 

Strength,  let  the  thnbers  be; 

The  walls  be  Constancy ; 
And  I.ove  the  roof  tree  and  dome, 

Benignant  as  the  sky; 
Let  Truth  and  Honor  lie 
Deep  for  foundation  stones, 

Richer  than  jasper  and  emerald ; 
Let  Thoughts,  holy  and  bright, 
Tenant  the  chambers  with  forms  of  light. 

And  Music's  sweetest  tones 
Float  echoing  round  the  place : 
Build  a  nuptial  throne; ;    be  the  Queen  installed. 
Of  the  fond  heart,  and  beautiful  face  : — 
Build  me  a  home  like  this. 

In  which  I  may  live  forever; 
A  palace  of  the  heart's  l)liss. 

That  shall  fall  asun«ler  never. 


E)E1»ARTK1J     DAYS. 


A   HIKTIIUAV    rOEM. 


I 


sir 


® 


AUGHTERS  so  fair!  iiained,  of  fond  youth  and  love, 

Departed  days !  O  hearts,  to  mine  replyiii<^ ! 
Whose  passions  rich  in  dimes  el^'sian  move, — 
Eyes!  whose  eh-ar  glories  are  ensphered  ahove, 
Though  their  dear  orbs  with  treasures  lost  are  lying. 


Ye  friends!  whose  coming,  like  the  fair  descent 
Of  Light,  broke  o'er  the  darkness  of  my  heart, 
And  calmed  me  into  hallowed  content, — 
Ye  took  my  dream  of  rapture,  when  ye  went, 
And  with  you  did  the  joy  of  earth  depart. 

O  days!  O  friends!  I  find  you  ever  worthy, 

As  Memory  weaves  her  tissued  light  and  shade; 
My  musing  heart  sinks  gently  down  before  thee, 
My  harp  shall  breathe  its  sweetest  passion  for  thee. 
My  midnight  couch  be  Memory's  altar  made. 

Fair  as  the  rose  that  blooms  in  Sharon's  vale. 
Pure  as  the  lily  on  the  scented  river, 


ui 


DEPARTED  DAYS. 


27ft 


ukI  love, 

r 

arc  lying- 

Lit, 


lade ; 
lee, 

thee, 
le. 


Brljjlit  as  the  fisher's  ilistanf,  sllvory  sail, 
And  mild  as  ove,  wlicn  siimiiior  suns  prevail, 
Your  memory  comes— hut  //'  have  ^one  forever! 

Days! — fair  as  pictures  painted  on  the  sky 

By  iris-pencil,  held  in  sliininjif  liand — 
Your  colors  have  not  faded,  tliou<:jh  on  hij^li 
The  cold  ^rey  clouds  salute  the  weary  «'ye — 

Storm-shadows,  o'er  my  heart's  enchanted  land. 

Now  thotiglit  sinks  soherly  upon  my  spirit; 

Manhood  is  here — its  stru<::^le  is  be<?uu  : 
"Tliy  boyhood's  faery  kln^don»  still  inlierit," 
Whispers  a  voice;  though  crumble  wall  and  turret. 

Where  darksomely  its  blitliest  livers  run. 

Yet  Hope  inspires — lier  radiant  cup  hath  tlavor; 

The  phantom,  smiling,  bids  me  dc^eper  drink. 
While  Beauty  yields  its  bloom,  and  Love  its  savor, 
And  Thought's  swift  stream  goes  softly  on  forever. 

While  yet  I  oidy  stand  upon  the  brink. 

Ah,  what  are  these  unquiet  aspirations. 

That  cannot  be  by  balms  and  flowers  appeased? 
Whence  are  the  dreams — the  mystic  revelations — 
And  whence  the  high,  prophetical  creations. 
With  which  the  charm'd  and  conscious  soul  is  pleased? 

Voices  we  hear,  out  (5f  the  Homes  eternal, 

Waking  a  longing,  still  unsatisfied — 
Hunger  divine,  and  yearning,  sweet,  supernal. 
For  good,  o'er  sunset  glooms,  and  May-morns  vernal, 

With  which  we  here  may  not  be  full  supplied. 

Are  the  high  hopes  that  fail  us,  truly  dying? 
Or  lingering  in  our  hearts,  to  be  fulfilled? 


m 


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Photographic 

Sciences 

Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  NY.  14580 

(716)  872-4503 


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276 


DEPARTED  DAYS. 


Are  weary  feet  led  vainly  on,  with  trying 
To  capture  birds  of  fancy,  always  flying? — 
Is  every  promise  sand  on  which  we  build? 

God  would  not  mock  us  I  No !  His  face  grows  tender, 
And  brightens  to  a  smile;  Heaven  stoops  again 

To  cheer  us  with  anticipative  splendor : — 

Existence  hath  far  other  gifts  to  render 
Than  sorrow,  disappointment,  tears,  and  pain ! 

Ah,  holy,  these!  Yet  are  there  joys  that  fly — 
Lights  from  immortal  summits,  lent  to  lead 

And  lure  us  onward  to  our  native  sky : 

For  if  the  gifts  of  earth  could  satisfy, 
Who  would  ascend,  or  to  the  Heavens  take  heed  ? 

Then  mourn  I  not  for  you,  departed  days ! 

Without  this  present  ye  were  incomplete : 
Let  Duty  win  my  service,  love,  and  praise; 
Let  me,  with  Martha,  tread  life's  careful  ways, 

Yet  sit,  with  Mary,  at  the  Master's  feet. 

'  Tis  not  in  vain  we  serve  Divine  or  Human ; 

The  toil  not  dull,  nor  distant  the  reward : 
Who  doth  with  light  one  shadow'd  spot  illumine, 
Who  putteth  joy  in  heart  of  man  or  woman, 

Shall  win  the  highest  bliss  life  can  aflbrd. 

Love  teaches  us  that  this  is  not  delusion — 
These  blossoms  do  not  perish  *nor  decay : 

Live,  Heart !  thy  mysteries  await  solution ; 

The  Light  breaks  forth  in  sudden,  wide  profusion ! 
And  lo !  the  dread— tlie  darkness  melt  away ! 


ion! 


(H 


EVENING    AT    HOME. 

T  home,  in  the  silent  even. 

I  coniinune  with  my  Sonl  alone. 
And  an  old-time  mnsic  floateth — 

A  sweet,  familiar  tone ; 
While  my  spirit  melts  within  me, 

And  my  eyes  are  full  of  tears. 
And  wakeful  Memory  glances 

Down  the  dim  and  slumbering  years. 

The  buried  Past  ariseth — 

The  loved  of  long  ago ; 
Their  shadows  move  before  me. 

All  silently  and  slow ; 
These  were  my  fair  companions — 

My  friends  and  lovers,  these : 
Now  Memory  bids  them  enter. 

For  they  come  whene'er  I  please. 

How  oft  in  youth,  aspiring. 

We  dreamt  of  a  life  sublime. 
While  the  bells  of  our  hearts  kept  ringing. 

With  many  a  fairy  chime; 
35 


'1 


278 


EVENING  AT  HOME. 


The  singers  of  earth  and  heaven 

Choired  to  them  and  me ; 
And  we  gl'>ried  in  tlie  opal, 

And  the  azure  of  slcy  and  sea. 

We  threaded  the  be.iming  Future, 

To  the  gates  of  the  Evermore ; 
And  we  strewed  witli  liopes  amethystine 

The  sands  of  its  star-lit  shore ; 
And,  o'er  Death's  darkened  portal, 

To  the  Land  of  our  desire. 
Our  leaping  hearts  went  outward. 

Like  the  flame  of  an  altar-fire. 

But  the  sun  at  last  was  darkened. 

The  stars  had  tear-dimmed  eyes, 
And  the  pearls  oii  the  shore  were  pebbles, 

And  the  skies  were  midnight  skies ; 
While  the  spirit's  harp  ^olian— 

The  harp  unto  which  she  sings. 
Gave  out  a  discord  dismnl 

From  the  clashing  of  its  strings. 

O'er  the  heart's  forsaken  threshold 

Blew  ever  the  windy  years. 
And  fell  the  damp,  dread  sorrows — 

The  drip  of  lonely  tears ; 
There  were  sombre  shadows  brooding 

Over  the  hearth  and  hall ; 
Where  only  dirges  were  uttered, 

And  my  mantle  was  a  pall. 

From  the  deep  vaults  of  that  cloudland 

Breaketh  a  brighter  day ; 
And  Love,  through  chastening  sorrows. 

Purgeth  my  dross  away ; 


EVENING  AT  HOME. 


279 


Soft  moonbeams  linger  round  me- 
A  strange  and  holy  spell ; 

And  my  soul  in  a  radiant  spther — 
A  sea  of  light,  doth  dwell. 

Distantly  fade  the  shadows ; — 

I  see  them  over  the  sen, 
Waving  their  palms  triiiniphant. 

And  beckoning  to  me, — 
Lifting  my  soul  forever 

Over  storm,  and  over  strife. 
And  tilling  me  with  the  longing 

For  that  deathless,  perfect  life. 


THK    CHILDREN'S     VOICES. 

MOTHEH  !  broodiiiii:  o'er  lost  itifjinoy, 
Oft  arc  my  solitary  thoughts  of  thee. 
Who  sigliest  for  the  living,  jiiul  dost  iiiourn 
For  the  dejir  ones  wlio  never  cau  return. 


O  mother!  seems  the  silence  lonjj,  since  they  - 
Tliy  nurslinj^s — left  the  nest,  and  tied  away? 
Or  dost  thou  hear,  at  hush  of  eve,  so  sweet. 
The  children's  voices,  and  their  hastening  feet? 

O  mother !  never,  on  this  lonesome  shore, 
Such  cheerful  accents  may  delight  thee  more; 
No  more  such  ••footstep-music"'  on  thine  ear 
Shall  ring,  to  tell  thy  darlings  wander  near. 

But  oh !  sweet  jewel  of  maternity! 
Some  raptured  greetings  lie  in  store  for  thee ! 
**Let  us  go  hence!''  Our  home  is  there! — arise! 
The  children  troop  to  meet  thee  in  the  skies ! 


I.    "On  my  ear 

Old  fuotstep-niusic  r^iigs." — John  McPherscn. 


0 


SISTER  Alice:.' 

Y  sister  dour,  tlioiigh  thou  aiul  I, 

CompaiiioMS  in  tlie  years  gone  by, 
Dwelt  'neatii  one  roof  anil  sheltering  tree. 
Nor  tlreanied  of  partings  soon  to  be; 

Yet,  in  these  duller,  soberer  days, 
We  walk  in  widely-sundered  ways. 
Nor  look,  ev'n  for  a  little  space, 
On  a  familiar  homestead  face. 


But  there  are  tliey  who  still  abide 
Cottaged  upon  our  green  hillside; 
Who  look,  through  fair  or  cloudy  day, 
On  distant  river,  isle,  and  bay.'-^ 

And  still  it  is  the  holiest  spot 
On  this  fair  earth,  to  our  fond  thought; 
For  there,  upon  that  fair  green  lull, 
Father  and  uiother  linger  still. 

I.    Mv  elder  sister,  Alice  Alberta,  now  Mrs.  Bentley,  whose  residence   is 
in  Halifax,  N.   S. 
a.    The  Avon  River.  Minus  Basin,  und  Five  Islands. 


SISTER  ALICE. 


Two  yet  rotimhi  tboir  joys  to  share, 
Their  pains  to  soothe,  tlieir  weiglits  to  bear; 
And  tliree  are  absent;  two  are  not;' 
liut  none — all,  none  can  be  forgot! 

One.  in  his  strong,  anointed  yontli, 
Tlie  baiuier  I)ear8  of  lioliest  Trutli ; 
We  liear  from  distant  lieiglits  his  cry, 
"Come  upward  I  Tldnc  tlie  spacious  sky!" 

My  sister!  in  that  home  of  tliine. 
Wliere  lights  of  lov(!  and  virtu«^  sliine, 
Tlie  children  group,  on  storied  nights, 
And  bring  new  duties,  new  delights; 

They  bring  tlie  memory  of  a  time. 
The  sweetest  ever  told  in  rhyme — 
A  golden,  an  enchanted  store — 
That  vanished  to  return  no  more ; 

The  dewiest  and  the  sunniest  years. 
Where  rapture  mingled  smiles  and  tears; 
Whose  far-ort* gleams,  through  care  and  pain, 
Come  once,  and  ever  come  again. 

But  still,  my  sister,  thou  and  I 
Love  ever,  as  in  days  gone  by; 
And  Time  cannot  ungrateful  prove, 
Who  takes  our  youth,  but  leaves  us  love. 

I.    One  died  in  infancy;  one  wus  lost  at  sea. 


I 


I 


-rc 


ECHO    OK    AN    OTvD    RALI^AD. 


IJJ 


'DO   TIIEV    MISS    MK    AT    HOME. 


HEN  morn  its  fair  prcsciioo  disclosos. 

An  1  tlu'  sunshine  is  broad  o'er  tho  lea, 
As  tlie  dew-drops  are  fresii  on  the  roses, 

So  the  tears  'neath  our  eyelids  for  thee: 
Thy  name  wakes  the  tenderest  emotion ; 

And  whenever  its  music  is  lieard. 
With  the  pnlse  of  the  tn-mulons  ocean. 

The  depths  of  <Mn"  spirits  are  stirred. 


iiy 


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1:1  \ 


When  twilights  with  magical  S'lendor 

All  our  hills  and  our  valleys  enfold. 
Then  to  musing  our  minds  we  surrender. 

And  we  dream  of  the  pleasures  of  old  ; 
The  harp  that  thy  hands  have  forsaken. 

Hath  been  hanging  in  silence  so  long. 
That  its  tones  we  no  more  may  awaken. — 

For  thou  wert  the  soul  of  our  song. 

*  *  *  *  ^>  *  *  !tt  * 


'.'•'l,^ 
<(',? 


\l 


VACATION. 

OME,  wIkmi  the  cycle  of  our  toil  is  o'oi-— 

WIkmi  wo  hiive  reaped,  or  sown  the  tearful  seed. 

Then  hid  the  hihorer  leh'jise,  and  speed 
Ills  loujfhij^  spirit  toward  his  native  shore. 
Home !  lieij^ht  serene.  l)elov"d  foreverniore. 

Above  all  star-horne  summits  shinin;^  free; 

Home!  isle  unvex'd,  beyond  a  sunset  sea. 
Toward  which  yon  silverM  saiTs  enchantment  bore 
If  I  could  reach  thee,  in  thy  far-off  realm. 

And  find  thee,  with  the  gjronp,  so  radiant-fair, 

Of  friends  and  fancies,  that  adorned  my  youth, 
I  should  not  fear  the  waves  that  overwhelm 

The  voyager,  eager  to  be  once  more  there. 

Pitching  o'er  glancing  seas  a  snowy  booth. 


IN    ABSENCE.' 

INCE  thou  art  gone  away, 

E'en  for  this  little  liour. 
Upon  my  love's  green  spray 

Hath  ripened  many  a  flower; 
And  many  a  tinted  thought 

My  fancy  tan  discern. 
Treasured  for  thee,  and  brought 

To  briglitcn  thy  return. 

Ah,  wert  thou  by  my  side, 

No  longer  should  I  fear 
The  falling  eventide. 

The  hurrying  storm's  career !' 
Thy  presence  witli  me.  Love ! 

Thy  light  to  gild  the  gloom. 
The  winter  drear  shall  prove 

Ev'n  as  the  spring-tide  bloom. 

But  wert  thou.  Love,  away. 
Ah,  never  to  return ! 


1.  Addressed  to  my  wifv  when   she  had   been  fi^one   from    home   several 
weeks. 

2.  It  was  in  the  late  autumn,  and  the  >yeather  had  been  dark  and  stormy. 

86 


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cf 


M 


IN  ABSENCE. 


Cold  oil  tin*  front  of  day 

The  suiiiiiirr-llroH  hIiouUI  burn  : 
My  life  wore  sealed  in  frost — 

Bonnd.  never  to  be  free — 
If  tbou,  dear  Love,  wert  lost 

Foreveriiiore  to  ine. 

For  ab,  in  love  vvliat  pain ! 

Wiien  tbe  familiar  face 
And  voiee  of  sweetest  strain 

Are  missing  from  tb(>ir  place! 
For  all,  wliat  woe  in  love! 

If,  upon  sea  or  sbore, 
Wbere'er  we,  lonely,  move, 

We  find  our  own  no  more. 


^i« 


THB    OLD     HON/IE. 

WIFTmove  the  stonnfiil  yeura  that  hoar 
This  heart— this  hme  lifo-hark  of  luhie — 
From  yon  far-hlddni  ishiiid  fah*, 

Forth  over  inanhooii's  sultry  Hue; — 
The  teini)est-\viii«;'(l  reh'iith'ss  years 
That  sweep  to  the  eternities, 
O'er  tliese  low-lyin^,  dark-hued  sj'as, 
Earth's  arjfosy  of  ho|)es  and  fears  ! 

Snnnner  has  eonie  :  and  now.  once  more, 

Tlie  wanderer,  lonj^  wont  to  roam, 
Hath  turned  him  to  the  (dden  shore 

Where  lies  his  youth's  seehided  houje : 
He  passes  lon^  familiar  ways, 
Lit  up  by  jfentle  nxMuorles — 
Bright  memories  I — the  golden  keys 
That  guard  the  gems  of  liappier  days. 

O  memories!  O  mighty  spell 

Breatliing  around  this  oMarmed  spot  I 

With  voiceless  music  now  ye  swell. 
And  bring  tlie  hour  of  pensive  tliouglit: 

For  round  this  liearthstone,  yet  once  more. 


I 

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rm^  OLD  HOME. 


I  call  the  dear  unbroken  band ; 
From  unseen  shore,  and  foreign  strand, 
They  come  to  greet  nie,  as  of  yore. 

I  see  my  father  in  his  chair 

With  his  two  babes  upon  his  knee, 
While  grandly  on  the  evening  air 

Roll  out  the  strains  of  old  ""Dundee." 
With  reverent  hearts,  we  happy  boys, 
Would,  soulful,  join  the  strain  divine, 
While  "Ocean"  or  "Auld  Lang  Syne," 
Would  swell  the  ocean  of  our  joys.* 

And  one  sweet  voice  there  was,  which  rose 

In  tenor  musical  and  clear. 
Such  as  from  harp  ieolian  flows; — 

And  evermore  thy  voice  I  hear 
In  cadence  soft'ning  through  the  years, 
And  still  I  see  thy  tender  eye 
Look,  mother,  as  in  years  gone  by — 
Our  rainbow  hi  a  realm  of  tears. 


I.  When  shall  we  hear  attain  that  deep,  full-hearted  singing — that  singing 
with  the  passion  :  it,  in  which  the  soul  had  play!  The  old-time  music,  or, 
as  Burns  describes  them, 

"Artless  notes  in  simple  guise,  *  * 
Those  strains  that  once  did  sweet  in  Zion  glide." 

Our  family  constituted  a  choir;  but  on  Sabbath  evenings,  when  there  would 
be  no  other  service,  the  several  families  would  assemble  in  one  home,  and 
with  the  old  Vocalist  open.  Music's  self  would  breathe  and  speak.  O  days  so 
dear  I 

"They  tune  their  hearts,  by  far  the  noblest  aim ; 

Perhaps  Dundee's  wild  warbling  measures  rise, 

Or  plaintive  Martyrs,  worthy  ofthe  name; 

Or  noble  Elgin  beats  the  heavenward  flame. 

The  sweetest  far  of  Scotia's  holy  lays." 

But  ah,  the  home  is  silent  now;  the  sweet-singing  voices  have  ceased! 
The  strains  ringing  in  memory  cannot  be  heard  there !  And  in  the  day  of  or- 
gans, choirs,  conservatories,  trills,  arias,  artistic,  fantastic  and  self-conscious 
singing,  we  are  compelled  to  excl  liin,  with  Wordsworth — 

"Sing  aloud 
Old  songs,  tlie  precious  music  of  the  heart!" 


I 


THE  OLD  HOME. 


O  golden  isle !  O  fragrant  clime ! 

How  swiftly  flew  your  blessings  l>y ! 
Now  backward  o'er  the  sea  of  Time 

I  cast  a  longing,  tearful  eye : 
A  dying  sun  sinks  in  the  surge ; — 

One  moment  glooms  your  Orient  near, 
Then  darkens ; — naught  the  poised  ear 
Meets,  save  the  darkling  billow's  dirge. 

And  one  there  was  who  always  sung 

The  air  of  our  old  melodies ; — 
A  pensive  youth,'  nor  oft  among 

The  boisterous  boys : — those  happy  days 
He  was  our  young  Apollo ;  he — 

Skilled  in  the  lyre,  of  Nature's  mood — 
Learned  from  hoar  harpers  of  the  wood, 
And  the  grand  anthem  of  the  sea. 

There  was  one  more,  whose  deep-toned  bass 

Strengthened  the  music  of  our  choir; — 
A  vigorous  form,  of  maul}'  grace. 

With  laughing  dark  eyes,  like  his  sire :' 
He  was  our  buoyant  sailor  boy; 

In  life's  flrst  spring  he  left  his  home, 
Afar  on  desp'rate  seas  to  roam. 
Inspired  by  young  Ambition's  joy. 

Where  now !  Alas !  his  voice  I  hear 

In  dream  J'  echoes  of  the  sea, 
And  distant  tempests  in  my  ear 

Murmur  their  secrets  fearfully; 

I.  A  not  inapt  allusion  to  my  brooding  youth.  Athletic  sports  I  was  in- 
capable of. 

a.  My  poor,  dear  brother,  whom  the  sea  engulfed,  was  the  strong  arm  on 
which  our  father  and  mother  leaned.  He  was  a  spirited  young  man,  and  de- 
veloped nobly;  tirm  and  resolute,  yet  of  a  generous  and  playful  mind.  He 
was  the  healthiest  and  strongest  of  our  group. 


■■:..*  ^ 


■;    H-. 


m 


ii 


THE  OLD  HOME. 


Somewhere  lieth  his  weary  head 

Beneath  the  restless  heaving  billow; 
A  mother's  prayer  still  haunts  his  pillow- 
May  "holy  angels  guard  thy  bed!" 


1 


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m 


?    -a' 


"Tears,  idle  tears!"    Though  tuneless  now 

The  heart  that  thrilled  to  songs  earth-born, 
Though  nevermore  his  proud  ship's  prow 
Shall  breast  the  billow,  tempest-worn; 
What  ill,  if  yonder  Heaven  unite 

The  broken  chords  to  grander  strain. 
And  if  his  shattered  bark  but  gain 
A  port,  emerged  to  realms  of  light? 

Ye  sounding  siren-waves,  still  beat! 
And  roll,  thou  hollow-dirgingsea! 
A  world's  funereal  anthems  meet 

Deep  in  thy  weird  antiphony : 
Still  lush  thy  plaintive-murmuring  shore! — 
1  see  thy  driftwood  idly  roll ; 
So  hope  and  love,  within  my  soul. 
Drift  idly  on  forevermore ; — 

Forevermore,  until  shall  ring 
The  Voice,  across  thy  dread  abyss. 

That  crowns  thy  victim,  man,  a  king, 
And  gives  thee  back  to  nothingness: 

0  let  the  Soul  her  languish'd  flame 

Rekindle  at  tlie  fount  of  Day. 
While  heaven  and  earth  do  flee  away, 
Before  the  Everlasting  Name ! 

1  go  to  meet  the  toiling  years ; 
They  becktin— I  their  voices  hear ! 

Yet,  ere  the  vision  disappears, 


THE  OLD  HOME. 


291 


Brothers !  be  thine  a  parting  tear. 

Swift  move  the  winged  hours  that  bear 
This  lone  and  frail  life-bark  of  mine 
Far  over  manhood's  sultry  line, 

From  yon  home-island,  passing  fair. 


f  i'i! 


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BABY'S     KUTURE. 


O  tell  me,  sweet  mother, 
What  will  the  bab)''s  future  be? — 
Baby  that  laughs  and  chirrups  at  me ; 
Lip  of  laughter,  and  eye  of  mirth. 
Born  with  the  prettiest  baby  on  earth ; 
Cheeks  of  the  richest  tint  and  mould ; 
Curling  locks  of  the  wrinkled  gold ; — 
Tell  me,  sweet  mother! 

What  shall  it  be— 

His  future  be? 


O  tell  me,  sweet  mother, 
What  will  the  baby's  future  be? — 
Had  you  the  prophet's  gift' to  see. 
Ah !  would  you  smile  as  you  do  just  now. 
As  you  stroke  the  floss  of  that  baby-brow  ? 
Would  the  pulse  of  the  prophet-heart  be  gay, 
Or  the  hot  tear  rise  to  be  brushed  away? 

Tell  me,  sweet  mother ! 
What  shall  it  be— 
His  future  be? 


BABY'S  FUTURE. 


298 


O  tell  me,  dear  mother. 
What  will  the  baby's  future  be? 
What  have  the  years  for  the  child,  aud  thee? 
When  the  silver  threads  and  the  lines  of  care 
Are  on  pure  white  brow,  and  in  dark' brown  hair; 
When  your  glowing  eyes  have  a  faded  light, 
Will  the  mother's  darling  her  love  requite? 
Tell  me,  fair  mother ! 

What  shall  it  be - 

His  future  be? 

O  tell  me.  dear  mother. 
What  will  the  baby's  futiu'e  be?— 
Ah !  it  is  wonder — 'tis  mystery ! 
Well  it  is  that  our  shaded  eyes 
Cannot  see  where  his  pathway  lies  : 
Hearts  might  shi     ler  that  now  with  joy 
Leap  to  folio-        .  darling  boy ! 
Tell  me,  fair  mother! 

What  shall  it  be— 

His  future  be? 

O  tell  me,  sweet  mother, 
What  will  the  babys  future  be?— 
When  the  boyish  heart  is  frank  and  free ; 
When  the  rival  powers  of  love  and  hate 
Storm  the  heart's  castle  and  force  its  gate ; 
When  the  touchstone  of  trial  is  lifted  once  more, 
Shall  the  soul  of  this  darling  sink,  or  soar? 

Tell  me.  O  mother ! 
What  shall  it  be— 
His  future  be? 

O  tell  me,  fond  mother. 
What  will  the  baby's  future  tie?— 

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baby'lS  future. 


''Suffer  the  children  to  come  unto  me," 
He  who  suffered  and  died  alone 
Says,  as  He  bends  from  His  love's  high  throne ; 
He  can  see  where  our  eyes  are  dim ; 
Offer  the  child  in  his  youth  to  Him  : 
Tell  me,  then,  mother! 
What  sliall  it  be, — 
His  future  beP 


W    sa 


O  tell  me,  sweet  mother, 
What  will  the  baby's  future  be?— 
Signs  of  promise  we  all  can  see ; 
Hope  gleams  out  from  that  deep,  dark  eye. 
Promise  looms  with  that  forehead  high; 
Joy  of  joys  in  our  hearts  is  he ! 
Bright  will  the  baby's  future  be : 

Tell  me,  sweet  mother! 
What  will  it  be— 
His  future  be? 


':^'>^:5Jt^(t?<^ 


THK    BOYS    IN    WINTKR. 

|HE  moon  is  up,  the  sky  is  clear,  the  frosty  air  is  still, 
And  gleams  to-night  the  crusted  snow  that  lies  upon 
the  hill : 
Come,  with  your  sleds! — our  starting  point  is  where  yon 

spruces  grow — 
And  let  us  have  a  merry  hour,  a-sliding  on  the  snow! 

Ha!  are  there  wrinkles  on  our  brows,  and  gray  in  beard 

and  hair? 
And  are  not  these  the  caps  and  mitts  we  school-boys  used  to 

wear? 
And  are  not  these  the  self-same  hearts  of  long  and  long 

ago? 
And  are  not  we  the  boys  that  went  a-sliding  on  the  snow? 

Come !  let  us  go  and  join  the  lads ! — we'll  laugh  at  their 

surprise  !— 
And,  when  our  hearts  are  light  as  theirs,  their  shouts  shall 

louder  rise ; 
We'll  sing  an  ancient  song  or  two,  they'll   whistle  sharp 

and  shrill, 
And  make  the  dark  old  wood  ring  out  from  underneath  the 

hill. 


r  ■.    ■ 

f  1 

1  ;    ;•! 

296 


THE  BOYS  IN  WINTER. 


li  ■  - 


ft 


% 


We're  meu,  but  yet  we  won't  forget  that  we  liave  once  been 
boys ; 

We'll  take  a  little  dash  of  fun,  and  make  a  bit  of  noise; 

We'll  give  these  leathery  cheeks  of  ours  a  warmer,  healthier 
glow  ;— 

So  take  your  sleds,  and  let  us  get  to  sliding  on  the  snow ! 

Ah,  who  would  be  the  churlish  elf,  that  childhood's  life 
destroys, 

Who  frowns  upon  the  children's   mirth,  and  spurns  their 
simple  joys? 

I  trow  to  stoop  awhile  to  them  might  do  his  spirit  good, 

And  waken  in  his  shrunken  veins  a  little  wholesome  blood. 

I  don't  forget  the  winter  days  when,  after  school  was  done, 

We  took  our  sleds  to  yonder  hill,  and  primed  our  hearts  with 

fun; 
The  ridgy  drifts  were  pearly  white  'neath  sunset's  ruddy 

glow,— 
And  ah,  but  we  \vere  merry  boys  a-sliding  on  the  snow! 

How  flew  the  pleasant  hours  away,  until  the  sun  was  set! 
Then  underneath  the  glittering  blue  again  we,  shouting,  met! 

And  all  the  girls,  with  floating  curls,  and  cheeks  as  warm 

as  June, 
With  sweeter  voices  came  to  hail  the  rising  of  the  moon ! 

They  joined  our  crew,  and  quite  o'erran  our  foaming  cup  of 
mirth ; 

We  yoked  our  sleds  upon   the  hill,  and,  singing,   sallied 
forth ; 

The  twisted  smoke  from  farmhouse  fires  rose  in   the  vale 
below,— 

Ah,  'twas  a  merry  bout  we  had,  a-sliding  on  the  snow ! 

And  there  was  one — O  well  ye  knew  the  sweetness  of  that 

face! 
The  heart  of  woman's  gentleness,  the  form  of  woman's 

grace  !— 


i^ 


THE  BOYS  IN   WINTER, 


297 


'Twas  always  summer  where  she  went,   wherein  our  love 

could  grow ; — 
Come  back!  dear  faded  face,  so  long  beneath  the  winter 

snow! 

Come!  join  the  lads!— I  hear  them  call! — We  will  not  lag 

behind, 
But  show  the  world  a  nimble  foot,  and  eke  a  cheerful  mind : 
I  would  not  wish  to  see  my  boys  act  cold,  and  harsh,  and 

strange. 
For  hearts— the  manliest  part  of  men— should    suflfer  least 

from  change. 

What  have  we  gained  by  growing  old,  if  Time  away  have 

borne 
The  fruit  and  flower,  and  we  liave  reaped  tlie  tliistle  and  the 

thorn ! 
What  have  we  gained  if,  making  grief  and  care  our  only 

store. 
The  freshness  of  our  earlier  days  our  licarts  may  feel   no 

more ! 

O  had  we  kept  our  childhood's  hearts,  when  boyliood  went 

away, 
The  years  might  not  have  scarred  our  brows,  nor  turned 

our  heads  so  gray ! 
Life  might  have  more  of  tear  and  smile,  and  less  of  fret  and 

frown. 
And  restless  Care  with  hundred  hands   forget  to  drag  us 

down. 

Come!    Hear    them    sing! — Sucli   music    bids  the    moping 

drudge  depart ! 
The  sunshine  of  a  cheerful  mind,  it  opens  up  my  heart : 
The  moon  is  high,  the  sky  is  clear;  arise!  and  let  us  go, 
And  have  an  hour,  a  merry  hour,  a-sliding  on  the  snow ! 


^  V  '  t 


H- 


I'd"., 


1  *  !   ^' 


1  y ;' 


A.     HOME-SONG. 


U 


'*--t 


NGRATEFUL  I  may  seem, 
Dearest,  to  mourn 
The  years  that,  like  a  dream. 

Never  return ; 
But  ah !  their  memory 

Ever  remains, 
Breatliing  of  love  and  thee 

In  low,  sweet  strains ! 

Years — long  ago,  to-day — 

Gave  1  this  heart 
All  tremblingly  away, 

And  mine  thou  wert ! 
Ah,  what  rare  wealth  was  mine 

When  on  this  breast 
I  felt  thy  brow  recline 

Softly  at  rest ! 

Jealous  of  our  great  joy, 
Pitiless  years 

Mix'd  with  our  love  alloy- 
Sorrowful  tears,— 


A  HOME-SONG. 


290 


Born  me  far  from  thy  side. 

Onward  to  roam 
Over  life's  wearying  tide. 

And  barren  foam. 

Oft,  in  the  gloaming  still, 

I  hear  once  more 
Mnsic  my  spirit  till — 

Sweet  songs  of  yore- 
Songs  that  my  l)irdic  snng. 

In  the  soft  glow, 
When  our  two  loves  were  young— 

So  long  ago ! 

Am  1  not  still  thine  own — 

My  song-bird's  mate? 
Bid  me,  from  wandering,  home — 

Thou  slialt  not  wait. 
While  oft  the  tender  tears 

Tell  thy  heart's  pain : 
Fly  far,  ye  weary  years ! 

Come  not  again ! 


u 


f  t 


i 


i  ,« 


'■k 


HILIvS    OK    MINAS. 

VEIl  MInas'  wintry  hills 
Wide  the  whitoning  snows  are  spread. 
Winter's  dirge  her  valley  fills, 

And  her  lovely  flowers  are  dead ; 
Every  bird  lias  left  its  brake, 

Every  leaf  has  left  its  tree, — 
Ah,  what  is  there  now  to  make 
This  a  pleasant  place  to  me  I 

On  these  hills-  in  summers  gone, 

In  her  gladness  uncontrolled. 
Lightly  tripped  the  feet  of  one 

Bright  and  beauteous  to  behold : 
Lightsome  form,  in  simple  dress. 

As  the  winds  and  waters  free — 
She  was  more  than  words  express. 

She  was  everything  to  me ! 

On  these  hills,  at  evening's  hush. 
Clear  her  voice  was  heard  to  float, 

While  the  roWn  in  the  bush 
Sweetly  trill'd  his  latest  note : 

Not  the  twilight's  chiefest  star. 
Glittering  o'er  some  sombre  tree 


>'i 


HILLS  OF  MINAS. 


301 


From  it8  }j^oUl(>ii  home,  iifar. 
Seemed  a  fairer  thing  than  she ! 

But  my  sunmief  did  not  last; 

Flowers  decay,  and  fancies  die ; 
Sullen  clouds  did  soon  o'ereast 

All  my  reach  of  glorious  sky: 
Down  the  limpid  brooks,  the  while, 

Did  the  turbid  torrents  roar ; 
And  my  (Jarllng's  voice  and  smile 

Gladdened  all  the  hills  no  more. 

Over  Minas'  wintry  liills 

N(^vermore  my  feet  may  tread. 
Since  my  Mary  lowly  dwells 

[n  the  mansion  of  the  dead  : 
Bright  the  smile  that  last  she  gave. 

As  the  sun's  departing  ray ; 
Green  the  grass  was  on  her  grave. 

White  with  wintry  snows  to-day. 

Over  Mlnas^  wintry  hills 

Suns  and  seasons  may  return ; 
There,  where  brooding  memory  dwells, 

I  can  linger  but  to  mourn  : 
Still  my  heart  too  fondly  leans 

Over  what  I  loved  before : 
Fare  thee  well !   O  pleasant  scenes ! — 

Pleasant  now  to  me  no  more ! 


(H 


Y ,  since  I  saw  thee  last 
On  that  resplendent  eve. 
When  twilight  o'er  the  radiant  west 
Did  her  dim  curtain  weave, 

38 


302 


HILLS  OF  MINAS. 


Darkening  the  liills  we  loved  to  tread — 

What  li<;lits  are  qiieiiched  I  what  hopes  are  dead ! 

One  face  has  sadder  grown. 

One  life  some  brightness  lost. 
AntI  silence  holds  the  gentle  tone 

That  gladden'd  tne  the  most; 
For  not  in  all  t\n\  world  of  air 
Wanders  thj'  sweet  voice,  anywhere. 

Lone  as  a  plaining  bird 

Above  her  rilled  nest. 
The  uiemor}'  of  piisr  raptnre  stirred 

New  sorrow  in  my  breast: 
Ah,  why.  beneath  this  changing  sky, 
Must  fairest  things  the  soonest  die  I 

Then  let  my  longing  cease. 

Let  Love  hei*  loss  forget : 
If  where  thou  art  is  perfect  peace, 

And  never  comes  regret, 
As  in  that  last  sweet  eventide 
I'll  think  of  thee — my  beauteous  bride! 


S;f: 


.m 


m^' 


assurance:. 

t 

I   LOVE  thee !  I  love  thee !  thou  ever  must  be 

y     A  vision  of  sorrow  or  f?hi(hi«;ss  to  me!  , 

With  tliee  I  the  iiouie  of  my  (^hihlhooil  forsake; 

For  the  vow  1  have  spoken  J  never  will  break. 

As  the  snn.  and  the  stars,  and  the  tides  of  the  sea 
Are  constant,  so  1  shall  be  constant  to  thee : 
I'll  love  thee  throngh  sorrow,  and  trial  of  faith, 
And  prove  thee  allection  is  stronger  than  death. 

I'll  love  thee,  and  s(!rve  thee,  nnwearied.  alone, 
When  youth-tinu\  and  fortune,  and  friendship  are  gone; 
The  prond  may  disown  thee.  th(;  wise,  disapprove; 
I  am  thine  with  the  strength  and  devotion  of  love. 

Come  back  I  O  fond  lover!  though  falsely  they  say 
That  I  have  forgotten,  while  thou  art  away  : 
My  love  may  be  wounded,  my  pathway  beset, 
My  heart  may  be  broken — 1  cannot  forget ! 

How  precious  the  thoughts  I  have  hid  in  my  heart — 
The  thoughts  in  which  thou  hast  so  tender  a  part! 
With  expectancy  swe(»t  I  await  thee  awhile ; 
Thou  comest! — 1  live  in  the  light  of  thy  smile! 


304 


ASSURANCE. 


I  love  thee!  I  love  thee!  Thou  never  shalt  see 
A  moment  of  sorrow  for  falsehood  in  me : 
When  others,  inconstant,  from  loving  decline, 
Thou  never  shalt  weep  over  folly  of  mine. 

Wherever  thy  pathway,  whatever  thy  lot, 
I'll  love  thee,  and  trust  tliee,  and  injure  thee  not; 
I'll  love  thee,  and  hless  thee! — thou  ever  shalt  be 
A  vision  of  hope  and  of  ghidncss  to  me! 


?■    ! 


1 1  ■ 


\\i    * 


i'M 


V  A  1.  E 


Rv    AVONSIDE. 

HE  snow-cloud  spivads  its  amplp  slieet 

Along  the  wintry  morning  sky ; 
The  feathery  carpet  'neath  my  feet 
Has  gently  fallen  from  on  high; 
And  here,  where  clust'ring  branches  sigh, 

And  Avon's  waters  darkly  swell. 
We  who  have  only  said.  'Good-bye,' 
Have  come  to  say  a  last  *FarewellI' 
Yet  let  it  still  be  but  'Good-bye!' 
Tho'  earth  be  wide,  and  years  be  long, 
The  heart  is  true,  and  Love  is  strong. 
And  we  should  never  say,  'Farewell !' 

The  wintry  days  will  pass,  and  here 

The  fields  and  groves  shall  bloom  anew; 
And  Avon's  crystal  brooks  be  clear, 

And  these  wiiite  skies  be  summer-blue; 
The  thrush,  returnii;g,  shall  be  true, 

The  robin  seek  his  fav'rite  dell. 
And  fonder  lovers  meet  to  woo. 

Who  never  come  to  say.  'Farewoll!' 


306 


VALE. 


J 


Icl 


O  let  it  still  be  but,  'Good-bye !' 
The  world  is  cold,  the  years  are  few ; 
Let  us  be  kind,  let  us  be  true, 

And  let  us  never  say.  'Farewell !' 

Each  sacred  hour,  'neath  leaf  and  star, 

Is  ling'ring  in  niv  memory  yet ; 
And  though  we  wander  wide  and  far, 

I  know  that  we  cannot  forget; 
Be  love  our  chosen  portion— let 

Our  lives  in  peace  together  dwell; 
1  bless  the  hour  when  tirst  we  met — 
I  cannot  benr  to  say,  'Farewell !' 
O  let  it  only  be  'Good-bye !' 
The  world  of  Love  is  wide  and  bright ; 
The  years  of  Love  have  sweet  delight. 
And  Love  can  never  say,  'Farewell  I' 


A 


"\ 


(  I  ■ ! 


1% 


TO   MY   mothe:r. 

THOU,  with  magic  in  thy  nnme 
To  tiiove  all  liearts.  and  to  control 
The  \v;  yvvard.  and  to  wako  love's  slninbcring  tlanio, 

And  kindle  all  the  poet's  sonl  I — 
Mother  I  thou  name  beyond  all  praise  I 

Though  much  my  harp  in  Beauty's  service  be. 
First,  among  other  loves  and  lays. 

Its  chords  are  strung  to  melodies  of  thee! 

I  would  not  lose  out  of  my  heart 

The  memory  of  those  early  days. 
When  thou  in  all  my  joy  or  woe  hadst  part — 

VV^ouldst  gently  chide,  or  warmly  praise; 
Nor  shall  the  hope  depart,  that  thou 

Wilt  long  abide ;  for.  in  my  hours  of  i)ain, 
I  long  to  have  thee  bless  my  brow 

With  brooding  sense  of  mother-love,  again. 

Far  from  the  country  of  my  birth 

I  have  not  found  all  hearts  unkind; 
For  I  have  known,  beside  the  stranger's  hearth, 

The  generous  heart,  the  kindred  mind  : 


808 


TO  MY  MOTHER 


.1'  1 


And  woman's  love  my  lot  has  bh^ss'tl. 

And  friends  reach  out  warm  hands  to  welcome  me ; 
But  when  they  seem  the  tenderest, 

'J'hey  do  but  mind  me,  Mother,  most  of  thee ! 

Then  wrlcome!  each  fond  memory! 
Coming  like  summer's  faintest  sigh. 
Breathed  by  the  sweeteu'd  wind  from  flower  and  tree, 

Where  southern  voyagers  wander  by 
The  spicy  isles.    To  pensive  thought. 
Each  face,  each  scene,  how  dear!    Ascend,  O  mind ! 
The  cloudy  mount  of  dreams, 
Where  inspirations  are  begot. 
And  where  poetic  glory  gleams ; 
But  haunt,  O  heart  of  mine!  the  hallowed  spot 
Where  flrst  thou  knewest  mother-love  was  kind ! 


r^ci 


^<mm 


THE     MARKIAOE     IVIOKNINO. 

t 

I   AM  coming!  my  djirlinijl  light-footod.  Ii;j^lit-li;»urto(I ! 
T*    The  your  of  our  \vaitlii<;  has  (hiwnod.  jind  dcpaitod  : 
Tho  SUM  is  disporting  in  rapturous  hluo — 
Bright  herald!  anuoinu'ing  my  coming  for  you! 

Your  face  at  the  window,  my  foot  on  the  portal. 

And  the  thrill  of  your  voic(\  in  my  heart  are  immortal : 

With  that  white  rose,  fresh-sparkling  with  morning's  first 
dew. 

O'er  your  fond,  swelling  bosom — you  break  on  my  view! 

And  another,  as  moist,  and  as  pearly,  and  fair. 
Lights  up  the  rich  folds  of  your  beautiful  hair; 
In  fine  flowing  garments,  with  ril)bands  and  ring. 
You  are.  daint}'  darling,  lit  bride  for  a  king! 

But  what  pearl  of  the  heart  makes  our  rapture  completest? 
Ah!  tlie  purest  of  tears,  in  tin!  eyes  that  are  sweetest! 
With  a  glimpse  of  lost  treasuie  in  girlhood's  bright  day, 
And  of  life's  morning,  passing  in  music;  away, 

O  words,  high  and  holy,  be  reverently  spoken! 

And  weave  the  strong  baiu^  that  shall  n<!ver  be  broken! 

39 


810 


THE  MARRIAGE  MORNING. 


li 


,1 


Be  brave  hearts  united  !  be  blessiiifjf  begun ! 
As  river  and  river  are  mingled  in  one. 

But  sadness  will  come  with  our  joyous  siu'prlse; 
There's  mamma  and  papa  with  tears  in  their  eyes  I 
A  sobbed  word  of  parting,  a  hurried  adieu, — 
I  know  what  they  feel  in  this  losing  of  you! 

Now  go  we,  my  darling  I  the  bright  day  is  o'er  us, 
The  future's  wide  portal  is  open  before  us ! 
With  currents  that  steadily,  shiningly  flow. 
Tenderly,  cheerily,  onward  we  go! 


''i  ■  ,..'■■ 


:!^ 


A    rs/IAI3RIOAL. 

HIXE  eyes,  'mid  their  brown  tresses'  shade, 

With  richer  lustre  shine, 
My  own  true  wife,  since;  lirst  was  hiid 

Thy  maiden  lumd  in  mine: 
O,  wlien  tliey  beam,  on  what  swift  wings 

Tlie  raptnred  moments  Hy! 
What  liappiness  tlieir  sliininj?  brin»;s — 

What  deep,  unsi)olv(Mi  joy ! 

Since  lirst  I  saw  their  mellow  light, 

And  felt  their  power  to  bless. 
They  have  not  grown  less  clear  or  bright, 

Nor  have  I  loved  them  less  : 
With  every  smile  and  tjvery  tear. 

That  joy  or  grief  can  know. 
Say,  what  enchantment  do  they  bear. 

That  I  shonld  love  them  so ! 

O  gentle,  loving,  tender  eyes  I 

Pure  as  the  morning  dew  ! 
Goodness  and  trnth  I  more  can  prize, 

Since  I  am  taught  by  yon ! 
What  newly-wakened  hopes  aspire, 

What  holier  passions  move. 
Where  thou  hast  shed  thy  kindling  fire, 

O  heaven-born  power  of  liOvel 


P'KAOMENT    OK    AN     El'ISTLE. 


'  j'., 


:!!:■; 


IXCK  I  possess  ii  loose  fucilily 

Of  <^!irl)iii<;'  thoii»^lits  in  <^iii"iiM'iits  inctroous, 
(Which  easy  writ  in;;*,  as  is  wisely  said, 
I'rovetli  liard  reading"  to  tlie  iiiaii  of  brain  ;) 

I'll  couch  n»y  answer  in  this  stra^<^lin^  verse. 

♦  *♦*♦>(<* 

Methinks  I  see  tliee.  even  now  rise  up 

Hefore  me.  like  as  when,  of  old.  the  years 

Sat  "gravely  on  thy  youth,  and  stainpetl  thy  brow 

•'With  the  pale  cast  of  thouj^ht,"  made  paler  still 

By  an  hal»itual  air  of  sol)«'rness, 

Which  told  of  sntleriuii,  not  unfruitful  in 

True  si)irit-(i<;pth  and  poet-prescience. 

Thou  ris<'st  up  before  my  tearful  eye. 

In  the  strong?,  dauntless  hope  and  faith  of  fame, 

While  life  stood  all  before  thee  vista-like. 

And  gloomed  and  glorious  in  half-mysteries. 

Do  i  not  know  thee  w«dl — O  ])rother  mine!  — 

Whose  childish  ears  drank  in  thy  melodies, 

Whose  heart  thrilled  at  thy  early  elo«iuence; 

Tride,  self-forgetful,  self-appropriating, 

liising  within,  and  stirring  all  my  heart, 


1  ■   . 


FRAGMENT  OF  AN  EPISTLE. 


ai.'i 


Such  as  one  Kcldoin  fcc^ls?  Do  I  not  know, 

With  pjihis  of  not  tialf-roallzhig  sense, 

Tliy  yoiin^  endeavors,  and  thy  early  years 

Of  partly  unappreciated  toil, — 

Of  toil  all  uncongenial  to  a  mind 

Like  thine — nnilt  to  drudge,  nnseen.  alone, 

Like  the  dull  dray-horse  on  a  dusty  road? 

Believe  me.  there  is  no  one  els(;  on  earth 

Who  knows  thy  virtues  with  a  prouder  heart, 

Or  knows  thy  failinnjs  with  a  soul  so  tilled 

Witli  kindred  fellow-feeling,  since  that  L 

'J'empted  in  many  points,  as  tliou  thyself, 

Do  «'nter  at  the  unlocked  portals  of 

Thy  dear  intinnilies.  am'  know  thee  well 

For  brother,  by  those  dear  intlrmlties. 

I  love  a  man  who  hath  a  human  h<>art, 

I  love  him  for  his  Inunan  failings  too; 

Hut  O,  thou  proud,  austere,  and  unapproachable. 

In  a  i)articidar  grandeur,  get  thee  hence! 

(iive  me  the  rich,  deep,  divers»;  music  rare. 

That  tnunbles  througli  the  human  hart)  of  time. 


Q 


E  V  E  V  . 

ISTEN  to  mo,  lauofhin^r  Evey! 

Weaving,  Hiii<;iii^  songs  for  tlice; 
Cutchlng,  wlicii  luy  heart  is  lieavy, 
Hiiiisliiiio  from  thy  glee. 

Thou  hast  boon  ot  sweeter  sliighig, — 

Music's  self  tlioti  mayest  be; 
Thou  liast  movement — gliding,  swinging, 
JJke  a  swallow  free. 

Come  abroad !  the  whole  creation 
Doth  with  us  harmonious  move ; 
And  tlie  sky's  bright  invitation 
Seems  to  walks  of  love. 

Stars  are  clear  in  heaven  above  thee, 

Soft  they  slumber  in  the  sea; 
Calmly  shining,  bid  me  love  thee, 
Trul}',  tenderly. 

Yet  I  feel  thine  e3'es  are  brighter, — 

Fonder  heart  can  uever  be ; 
And  my  own,  it  groweth  lighter, 
Charm' d  with  love  of  thee. 


EVEY. 


31A 


Gentle  Evey.  wilt  thou  lv)ve  1110? 

Wilt  tlioii  ^ivc  me  simple  fjilth? 
I  will  hold  me,  I  will  provt;  iiu^ 
(Juiistant  until  dciilli. 

Smile  consent-r-my  suit  approvliijj^, 
With  icsponslv*' passion  movi'd  I 
Mine  the  double  joy  of  lovln^^, 
And  of  hcin;;  loved. 

Life  cannot  Ix;  dull  (>»•  ^jlooniy, 
IJt  by  siumy  smiles  of  thine, 
With  thy  l)lu(!  eyes  tnrniny:  to  me, 
And  thy  hand  in  mine. 

Come  what  will,  with  thee,  I  fear  not; 

Thou  In  darkness  li^ht  shall  be; 
Discords  fall,  but  I  shall  hear  not — 
Save  thy  melody. 

Then  the  frosty  years  may  j^ather 

All  their  snows  on  cheek  and  brow ; 
Only  let  us  love  each  other 
Just  as  we  do  now. 

Thine  my  son^,  and  thou  its  tire — 

Thou  art  every  nuise  to  me; 
Thine  my  heart,  without  desire, 
Save  to  beat  for  thee. 


->J<^b))(l 


>7 


/-<■ 


1^ 


i   ' 


i?.f 


Hi- 1 


I-   .•!_     ■ 


i;M-! 


WISHES 


.  Written    in    an    Album. 

*f*F  I  should  wish  for  thine  and  thee 
y     The  happiest  fortune  that  conld  be, 
I  would  not  mention  wealth,  nor  fame. 
Nor  freedom  from  reifret  or  blame; 
For  who  shall  live,  and  never  feel 
Regretful  sorrow  o'er  hiin  steal? 
And  who  shall  make  the  truth  his  choice. 
Nor  hear  the  world's  reproachful  voice? — 
I  would  not  that  thy  earliest  days 
Were  spent  in  folly's  wildering  maze; 
Hut  these  would  I  for  thee  desire  : — 

A  heart,  to  love  and  meekness  won ; 
A  heavenward  tlame  that  might  aspire 

Through  faith  in  the^Most  Holy  One; 
A  lowly  walk  in  Duty's  vale ; 

An  eye  for  all  things  fair  and  true; 
Sweet  tears,  fond  smiles,  where  cheeks  grow  pale 

With  sorrow:  joyful  work  to  do. 
And  good  to  prosper  'neath  thy  hand; 
Largess  of  beautiful  and  grand 
In  nature,  and  a  treasured  store 
Of  poet's  verse,  and  sage's  lore ; 
Communion  high  with  Wisdom's  sons — 
A  pure  heart's  lit  companions ; 
A  nook  on  earth,  while  life  is  given ; 
And,  when  earth  fails,  a  honn^  in  Heaven. 


ffi 


^w  pale 


A    PRAYER. 

AY  the  dear  Lord  of  faithful  Ruth 
Keep  thee  from  harm,  my  love; 

Preserve  thy  soul  in  guileless  truth, 
Pure  as  the  white-wiiig'd  dove. 

O  may  thy  tender  feet  ne'er  go 
In  paths  where  flesh  doth  fail ; 

And  may  thy  loving  heart  ne'er  know 
A  woman's  passionate  wail ! 

And  may  thy  days  be  passed  afar 
From  doubts,  and  cares,  and  fears ; 

From  darkness  of  the  spirit's  prayer. 
Where  voice  is  lost  in  tears. 

So  may'st  thou  breast  life's  tossing 

With  song,  and  innocent  glee ; 
As  when  some  wild-bird,  flying,  laves 
Its  bosom  in  the  breaking  waves 
And  white  foam  of  the  sea. 


40 


'!!■  ■  ■ 

I.    ■'. 


RECOONITION. 


'if.  '■ 

i  1 

n^?'  : 

ii-m  ! 

iiiK;r  ; 

Ah,  Christ,  that  it  were  possible 

For  one  short  hour  to  see 

The  souls  we  loved,  that  they  iiiifjht  tell  us 

What  and  where  they  be. —  Tennyson. 

VER  there  lives  within  the  human  breast 
This  wish,  ungratified.  to  see  or  hear 
Something  of  that  inviolable  sphere 

Where  our  departed  loved  ones  are  at  rest : 

The  outward  world  is  boldly  manifest — 
The  air  of  balmy  blue — the  stars  at  night — 
The  moving  forms  of  men — the  birds  in  flight; 

But,  if  we  farther  seek,  'tis  bootless  quest : 

So  I  retire  within  myself  apart 
From  show  and  bustle,  and  with  Him  commune 

Who  holds  the  secret  dear  to  every  heart — 
The  mystic  secret  Death  revealeth  soon  : 

The  gleam  of  ui)per  light— the  glimpse  of  face 
Familiar,  sainted — the  eternal  noon 

I  wait,  in  faith,  still  giving  patience  plac^. 


pi 


ii 


THK    KADELESS     BEAUTY. 


t— 
night ; 


immune 


There  is  a  realm  where  the  rainbow  never  fades,  where  the  stars  will  be 
spread  before  us  like  islands  that  slumber  on  the  ocean  ;  and  where  the  be- 
ings that  pass  before  us  like  shadows  will  stay  in  our  presence  forever. 

—BitlwerLytton. 


HERE'S  a  land  of  fadeless  beauty 

Bright  beyond  the  misted  sea. 
Where  the  rainbow  is  forever. 

And  the  stars  eternal  be : 
Homes  no  human  hand  may  fashion 

There  shall  flourish  and  endure ; — 
Spirits  free  from  earthly  passion, 

Ever  deathless,  glad,  and  pure. 


face 


There's  a  land  where  chilly  winter 

Never  comes  with  frosty  gloom ; 
Where  no  sin  shall  blight  and  wither 

Eden's  pure,  perpetual  bloom  : 
'Tis  a  land  where  never  sorrow 

Bids  the  mourner's  tear  to  flow; 
Where  no  frowning,  dim  to-morrow 

Ever  dawns  on  human  woe. 


If « f  I 


J'l 


M   1 


¥•  J 


^>. 


H 


A- 


! 


820 


THE  FADELESS   BEAUTY. 


Yet,  in  all  our  finest  fancies 

Never  rose  so  fair  a  dream 
As  these  sliores  and  stilly  waters, 

With  their  dayspring's  living  gleam,- 
Where,  in  arras  of  Love  enf olden, 

I  my  cherished  ones  shall  see:  — 
Oh,  this  clime,  so  glorious,  golden, 

Holds  a  happy  home  for  me ! 


W  A.  ITI  N  Q. 


They  also  serve,  who  only  stand  and  wait. — Milton. 

llj  AITING  'mid  the  sliadows—wjiitiiig— waiting  still  I 
^^^     Ours,  to  do,  to  sufter;  'riiiiie,  the  iioly  will! — 

Waiting  'till  the  furnace  shall  the  gold  refine ; 

Till  the  eloud  shall  scatter,  and  the  sun  shall  shine. 

Waiting,  only  waiting  for  the  door's  unclosing; 

Doth  the  Master  linger?  wait  thou,  watching  still. 

Waiting  'mid  the  shadows,  yet  not  all  alone ; 
Thoxi  art  my  companion — bright  and  holy  One ! 
In  the  thirsty  desert  fountains  are  unsealed ; 
Soon  I  pass  to  glories  yet  to  be  revealed. 
Waiting,  only  waiting,  till  the  trembling  portal 
Opens,  and  the  Master  is  no  more  concealed. 

Waiting  'mid  the  shadows,  while  through  gates  of  dawn, 

Triumphing,  rejoicing,  my  belov'd  have  gone : 

Vacant  must  their  places  on  the  earth  remain ; 

But,  beyond  the  shadows,  soon  we  meet  again. 

Waiting,  only  waiting,  till  the  shining  flnger 

From  their  homes  immortal  hath  the  veil  withdrawn. 


322 


WAITING. 


Waiting  'mid  the  shadows,  and  the  lonely  years, 
Breaking  bread  of  sorrow,  moisten'd  vvitli  my  tears ;' 
Restless  on  my  pillow  till  the  dawning  gray; — 
But  lie  comes,  who  smileth  all  my  tears  away ! 
Waiting,  only  waiting;— but  the  darkness  breakethi 
Hail !  t\:f    joyous  dawning!  Everlasting  Day! 


I. 


"Who  never  ate  his  bread  in  sorrow, 

Who  never  spent  the  darksome  hours 
Weeping  and  watching  for  the  morrow, 
He  knows  not  you,  ye  unseen  Powers." 

—Goethe,     Wilhelm  Meister,  B,  II.  Ch.  13. 


;i>  il 


■'  !.i ' 


THE     ANSWER. 


You  ask  what  is  the  meaning  of  Kcble's  line — 

'•Who  for  the  spangles  wears  the  funeral  pall?" 

He  hasjust  said,  that  earth  would  not  be  worth  having,  if  it  were  all,  even 
though  afuiction's  kiss  brightens  it  often  ;  and  then  compares  those  kisses  to 
spangles  on  the  pall.  Who  wcnild  be  in  a  coffin  for  the  pleasure  of  having  a 
velvet  pall  with  spangles  over  him?  What  matters  it  to  the  dead?  It  is  not 
a  very  polite  insinuation,  however,  to  "dear  affection."  He  means,  who 
would  live  this  dead  life  for  the  sake  of  a  few  moments  of  aff'ectionate  happi- 
ness, or  rather,  a  good  many,  for  he  says  "oft?"     I  reply,  I  would. 

— /".  W.  Robertson's  Life  and  Letters. 

ij  H,  who  would  prize  a  life  like  this, 
^■^     With  all  its  fleeting  pain  and  joy, 
Did  not  some  hope  of  future  bliss 

A  heavenly  recompense  supply? 
Can  that  which  seems  so  mean  and  brief, 
So  filled  with  drudgery  and  grief. 
And  disappointment — ending  wholly  here. 
Be  greeted  with  a  smile,  or  counted  worthy  of  a  passing 
tear? 

Yea,  in  this  world  Love  is  so  sweet, 

So  rich  a  recompense  for  pain. 
One  might,  for  a  reward  so  great. 
Live  all  his  sorrow  o'er  again ; 
And  though,  beyond  the  "-spangled  pall," 
No  dear  affections  might  befall, — 
Though  in  no  other  home  were  life,  or  bliss, 
One  still  might  smile  serene,  and  thank  the  Giver  for  the 
joy  of  this. 


■  1    *«.'> 


W    K^ 


10 


TO    ABBIE     IN     KLORIDA. 

HEN  God  came  to  me,  j^ears  ago, 

And  l)rought  for  gift  thj'  heart  to  mine, 
He  said  unto  me  :  ''Son,  beiiold, 
A  priceless  treasure — thine ! 

'•I  give  it  tliee  to  hold  in  fief 

For  me,  until  1  come  again; 
Guard  thou  it  well  from  night  and  storm, 
From  loneliness  and  pain. 

''And  if  thou'rt  faithful  to  thy  trust, 
And  fill  the  measure  of  pure  love. 
Thou  wilt  not  fail  to  find  it  thine 
In  the  high  life  above." 

I  took  thee  to  my  throbbing  heart ; 

I  lov'd  with  manhood's  passion-power; 
And  in  thy  light  my  soul  put  forth 
Her  richest  fruit  and  flower. 

And  all  of  earth  that  seemed  most  fair 

Was  gatlicred  in  th\  gentle  eye ; 
I  never  dreamed  of  grief  and  death, 
When  thou,  dear  love!  wert  nigh. 


TO  ABB  IE  IN  FLO  BID  A. 


32o 


Hut  now  I  s(M»  thy  fiu'c  no  niorp; 

And  often  ask  myself,  witli  tears. 
If  God  will  take  the  gift  He  j^iivc. 
And  leave  nie  (Mupty  years. 

For  thou  hast  not  yet  borne  for  rn<! 

Of  hope  and  love  the  heart's  full  freight ; 
Thou  wear'st  the  crown  of  maidenhood. 
And  I  toil  on  and  wait. 

And  bear  thee  upward  unto  God, 
With  crying:,  and  with  aj^ony : 
Then  comes  the  voice :  "Was  she  not  Mine. 
Before  I  gave  her  thee? 

**That  which  is  best  for  thee  and  tliine 

Thou  mayst  not  know,  thou  <!anst  not  tell ; 
'I'hou  pray'st  for  life :  be  still,  and  know 
The  Father  worketh  well.'' 

And  now  I  try  to  leave  with  God 

Of  Love  and  Death  the  mystery; 
Assured,  wiuitever  happens  here, 
Ours  is — Eternity  I — 

Assured  our  love  will  never  pass, 

Xor  change,  with  change  of  earthly  state  ; 
And  should  I  chance  to  tarrj'  long, 
Thou'lt  meet  me  at  the  gate, — 

Thou'lt  meet  me  at  Heaven's  gate,  dear  love ! 

With  radiant  eye  and  tearless  smile, 
And  give  thy  lonely  one  the  rest 
That  he  hatli  lost  awliile. 


4J 


\l 


A    NEW-YEAR    REVERIE. 


© 


OLD,  and  piik',  and  passionless. 
In  his  chill  and  snowy  dress; 
Frozen  in  his  heart.  Ihe  blood 
That  in  sninnier  li«^htly  Ho  wed  ; 
On  his  cheek  the  roses  dead. 
From  his  brow  the  suidight  lied. 
In  his  eye  the  frozen  tear — 
Lowly  lies  the  dyin<rj  Year! 

Die  with  him  the  hopes  away 
That  have  conrted  to  betray, — 
Ills,  that  leave  the  sting  and  smart 
Of  their  poison  in  the  heart; 
Die.  the  hours  that  tloated  by. 
Mirthful  as  a  maiden's  eye; 
Woe  of  heart,  and  strife  of  mind. 
Leave  a  settled  calm  behind. 

Yet.  whatever  he  takes  from  me. 
Dearest,  let  him  leave  me  thee! 
Friends,  once  fond  and  faithful  found. 
Slumber  in  the  wintry  ground  ; 
Some,  inconstant,  faithless  grown. 


A  NEW- YEAR  REVERIE. 


827 


Left  me  loiijjf  to  weep  alone : 
Far  may  tlie  loni  moment  bu 
Doom'd  to  rob  my  beart  of  tbee! 

Can  tbose  eyes  of  b((av(Mily  bue, 
Dyetl  witii  soft,  bixnriant  bhie; 
Like  sweet  summtsr-stara  o'erhiiil 
By  dim  eoverture  of  sliaile, 
Full  of  all  tbat  may  remind 
Of  tlie  trutbfnl  and  tbe  kind.— 
(.'an  tbose  eyes.  I  love?  tt)  see, 
Ever  fade  away  from  meV 

Nay  !  Depjut.  sad  year,  depart  I 
Tbou  bast  blest  a  lonely  lieart  — 
Made  it  tbrob  witb  fond  concern ; 
I  will  bless  tbee  in  return  : 
t'ome !    Voun^  cb(Mub-cbild  of  'i'ime  ! 
Hail  tbee,  many  a  Joyous  (;iiime! 
May  tby  tinj^er-toucb  impart 
Gladness  to  my  darling's  beart  I 

Wilt  tbou  fair  and  faltbful  prove — 
Constant  to  tbe  one  I  loveV 
Bid  no  wing  of  doul)t  or  fear 
Darken  in  love's  atmospbere ; 
Cbide  the  lingering  bours'  delay, 
Plaste  tbe  bappy  nuptial  day; 
Two  fond  bearts  logetber  draw,— 
Love  the  link,  and  love  the  law. 


Come  I — 1  bless  thee  for  her  sake ! — 
Bring  the  birds,  tbe  llowers  awake ; 
Tuft  the  earth,  and  tint  tbe  skies. 
Bid  the  bowers  of  Beauty  rise  I 


32h 


.1  NEW-YEAJi  ItKVEHlE. 


Two  fond  hearts— in  lastiiij;  fultli 
FiCt  tlicm  he  iiiii(i(^  one  till  (li'Utlj  I— 
OiH'  till  {\v\\l\\'i—fi)riv('r  oiM'! 
Lov(!  is  <>ii(lle.sK  unison! 


i  -1 


t   ,i 


i  I! 


NAKNIA. 


''t! 


^ 


Imitiitcil  from  Srhillcr. 

OON  must  the  Hojuitcoiis  iVwl 

Vunqnisird  arc  Mom  niid  Immortals: 
See  I  whore  wan  myriads  hie 

Down  thro'  the  shadowy  portals  I 
Hearts  broken — breakiii<;  tin;  sod; 

IJruised  the  tremulous  blossom  ; 
Hut  in  the  Stygian  God 

Yields  not  that  steely-cold  bosom  I 

Once  could  I.ove  only  prevail 

Over  the  Kulor  of  Shadows; 
Nor  could  Persephone  pale 

Linger  in  Enna's  sweet  meadows  : 
If,  on  the  threshold  of  Doom, 

Constancy's  i)rayer  can  be  granted. 
Ilermes  has  instantly  come — 

Protesilaus  is  wanted  I' 


I.  See  Wordsworth's  poem  of  "  jLaodattn'a."  Tliis  dovoti'il  wife,  in 
answer  to  a  fervent,  protracted  praver,  was  pcnnitttd  a  brief  ititerview  witli 
the  spirit  of  her  "shiiitjhtered  lord."  'Hicir  ronferi  nee  tenninated  at  the  re- 
appearance of  llerines,  who  came  to  conduct  him  to  tlie  realm  of  shades. 


!:| 


lir 


N^NIA. 


See  the  green  mounds  where  they  lie, 

All  of  them  patiently  sleeping ! 
See  where,  beneath  every  sky, 

Mothers  of  heroes  are  weeping ! 
For  the  hearts  of  the  Gods  have  grov/n  tender 

To  mark  all  the  sorrows  of  Time, — 
How  the  Beauteous  nmst  fade  in  its  splendor, 

And  the  Perfect  depart  in  its  prime ! 


i 


(3 


ANQEIv-WHISPERS. 

NGEL-whispers,  breathino^  lowly, 

At  the  hush  of  twilight  holy. 
From  the  star-lit,  shadowy  heaven. 
To  the  ears  of  mortals  given : 
Hark!  the  raptm-ed.  heavenly  chorus, 
As  they  bend  and  hover  o'er  us. 
While  the  silence  is  but  sweeter 
j,^    -vw.5.v  vvino-s  than  star-light  fleeter, 

And  their  whispers,  breathing  near! 

Angel-whispers,  softly  breathing, 

Where  young  Love's  flrst  bands  are  wreathing; 

Where  the  flowery  tie  is  parted. 

Leaving  woman  broken-hearted; 

Where  the  widow'd  mother  weepeth 

O'er  her  infant,  while  he  sleepeth  ; 

Giving  sweetest  balm  to  Sorrow, — 

Saying,  '"Twill  be  well,  to-uiorrow  I'' — 

Angel-whispers  breathing  near! 

Angel-whispers,  where  temptation 
Bends  the  true  heart's  inclination; 
Where  the  fallen  soul  lies  riven. 


%i 


332 


ANGEL-  WHISPERS. 


\  \ 


Unlamented,  unforgiven ; 
Where  the  wanderer,  homeless,  friendless, 
Weary,  walks  a  pathway  endless ; 
Where  wan  Genins,  deep-dejected, 
Sits  in  solitude  neglected, — 

Angel-whispers,  breathing  near! 

Angel-whispers,  where  Devotion 
Bends,  with  musical  emotion ; 
Where  the  contrite  spirit  prayeth. 
And  the  raptured  soul  delayeth ; 
By  the  couches  of  the  dying. 
Mingling  with  the  mourner's  sighing. 
While  the  tide  of  life  ebbs  slowly. 
Come  the  angel  whispers  holy — 

Angel-whispers,  breathing  near! 


II 


^    V- 


ear! 


Sv^ 


e^:^^^^ 


^ 


iju- ! 


Songs  of  J^spiratiea  and 

Endeavor. 


iiLi 


V  \i 

i    V- 
I,  I 


^ 


^^^■^^^^ 


'^ 


i  Ivii  I 


49 


J!>0 


§ 


AUXILIUrvI     AB    ALXO.' 


i5|i 


•Hope  thou  in    God  for  I  shalt  yet  praise  him." — Psalm  XLII.:  5. 

HE  morning  breaks,  with  beauteous  light, 
Wide  o'er  tlic  heavens  projected  far ; 
And  the  bhie  vault  is  burning  bright, 
With  one  resplendent,  quivering  star. 

O'er  all  the  fields"  reviving  green. 

The  sunshine's  golden  banners  wave ; 
Glint  o'er  the  forests'  dewy  sheen. 

And  sparkle  on  the  dancing  wave. 

In  copses,  bloom'd  with  sweet'ning  brere, 
And  green  grove-temples,  framed  for  praise, 

With  most  melodious  meaning,  clear. 
The  birds  shrill  out  their  matin  lays. 

But,  to  more  shady  haunt  removed, 
Thou  liest.  unlit,  my  woe-worn  soul, 

As  outcast  wanderer,  unbeloved. 
Whom  none  can  harbor  nor  console. 

I.    Our  help  is  from  on  high. 


336 


AUXILIUM  AB  ALTO. 


H 


Hear  thou  a  Voice  that  softly  says, — 
"In  this  drear  desert's  wildering  wild, 

Where  no  hird  sings,  no  streamlet  plays, 
Why  art  thou  lingering,  O  my  child ! 

If  blight,  fall'n  on  these  glories  rare. 
Thy  fondly-trusting  heart  depress. 

1  am  thy  rescue  from  despair ; 
And  I  "created,  but  to  bless.'" 

Come,  from  these  melancholy  shades, 

And  I  will  lead  thee  by  the  hand. 
To  sweeter,  and  more  soothing  glades, 

And  spaces  of  a  brighter  land. 

'Come,  if  ttiy  trusted  friend  forsake,*'— 

If  earthly  lovers  faithless  be; 
If  woe  thy  trembling  heart  shall  break, 

•1  am  thy  portion ;  come  to  Me  !'^ 

Lift  up  thy  head !  awake !  arise ! — 

With  cheerful  tasks  thy  powers  employ  I 

Why  weep,  dear  daughter  of  the  skies, 
When  Heaven  would  crown  thy  lot  with  joy?" 

Hear,  O  my  soul,  the  tender  Voice ! 

Mercy  thy  sorrow  all  hath  borne; 
More  reason  hast  thou  to  rejoice. 

Than  lie  dejected  and  forlorn. 

Dim  not  the  radiant  hours  with  grief. 
Nor  greet  each  moment  with  a  tear; 


1.  "Shake  oft"  tlie  melancholy  cliain, 

B'or  God  created  all  to  bless." 

—  Thomas  Chatterton,  "Jiestg'Matt'on." 

a.    Ps.  XXVII.   10. 

3.    Charlotte  Elliot. 


A  UXILIUM  AB  AL  TO. 


887 


Look  smiling  up — thy  sure  relief, 
The  promised  Comforter,  is  near ! 

And  O,  His  touch  hath  power  to  8till 
The  painful  throe,  the  sick'ning  strife ; 

And  but  His  garment^s  hem  shall  thrill 
The  pulses  of  thy  languid  life ! 

O  why  art  thou  cast  down,  my  soul? 

Why  so  dismayed?  Though  tempests  roar, 
The  whelming  floods,  that  round  thee  roll. 

Would  sweep  thee  to  His  sheltering  shore ! 

Arise,  and  leave  this  drear  abode. 

Nor  longer  with  thy  griefs  abide : 
The  thirsty  soul  that  pants  for  God, 

With  Him  shall  soon  be  satisfied.' 


Thou  yet  shalt  praise  Him.  though- His  hand 
Not  yet  the  lifted  curtain  shows ; 

Though  now  thou  canst  not  understand 
What  heavenly  Wisdom  only  knows. '^ 

The  tears,  at  eve,  that  rise  and  fall, 

With  morn's  tirst  beams  assuaged  shall  be; 

And  the  great  Sun  who  beams  on  all, 
Shall  surely  shine  again  for  thee. 

1.  Psalm  XLIl :   i-a. 

2.  John  XIII:  7. 


Q 


QOOD    CHKER. 

HEER  thee,  O  friend !  with  tearful  eye. 

And  head  that  droopeth  low ; 
Choose  not  to  breathe  the  hopeless  sigh. 

And  wear  the  look  of  woe ! 
The  image  of  a  lost  delight 

In  memory  lives  on; 
And,  hand  in  hand  with  sable  night, 

Walketh  the  golden  dawn. 

Cheer  thee,  O  friend !  and  stir  again 

Brands  of  thy  sinking  fire; 
Fuel  of  joy  and  light  remain 

To  kindle  and  aspire : 
If  life,  indeed,  were  cold  and  wan, 

And  utterly  forlorn. 
The  last,  worst  business  of  a  man. 

Is  fruitlessly  to  mourn. 

Cheer  thee,  O  friend !  thy  hopes  decay'd, 

Beyond  thy  sight  to  bloom ; 
Thou  saw'st  thy  fair  companions  fade, 

And  did'st  thy  heart  entomb : 
Despair  not !  blossoming  greenery 


I 


GOOD    CHEER. 


389 


Shall  spring  from  Death's  dark  rod; 
For,  if  they  may  not  dwell  with  thee. 
They  live,  at  least,  with  God. 

Cheer  thee,  O  friend !  nor  faithless  be 

To  all  that  yet  remains  ;— 
Life  cannot  all  be  misery. 

Nor  joys  unmixed  with  pains: 
Sorrow,  too.  hath  Us  sweet,  they  say — 

Its  charm  to  glad  the  sight. 
As  clouds,  that  hide  the  noontide  ray, 

May  hold  the  evening  light. 


I 


I J  F'  ! 


'I; 


Up!  Up! 
The  fair,  white  banner  on  the  walls  lift  higher! 

Up!  Up! 
Victory  is  theirs  who  falter  not,  nor  tire: 
While  Wrong  and  Kvil  form  their  proud  array. 
Will  ye  be  weak,  O  children  of  the  day? — 
Will  ye  be  weak,  while  One  so  strong  is  near? 
Will  ye  be  recreant,  yielding  to  base  fear? 
Nay!  man  the  walls,  with  many  a  hearty  cheer !- 

Up!  Up! 


i 


Up!  Up! 
The  King  has  need — the  faint  and  hopeless  call ! 

Up!  Up! 
For  foeman-forces  haste  to  storm  the  wall ! 
Say  not,  '"Tis  well  with  me;  I  cannot  go; 
Am  I  man's  keeper,  that  you  urge  me  so  ?*' 
O,  what  a  world  were  this,  of  sad  despair. 
If  for  his  brother's  need  no  man  should  care ! 
Be  roused  from  self !  aloft  the  banner  bear ! — 

Up!  Up! 


UP! 


841 


Up!  Up! 
Why  live  we,  but  to  bravely  do  and  dareV 

Up!  Up! 
Is  Duty  on  tlie  wall?  then  Safety's  there! 
Is  Danger  on  t!»e  wall?  no  malison 
Of  doom  falls  on  thee,  and  thy  task  undone! 
Haste !— if  'tis  for  thyself  thou  hast  such  oare. 
And  thine  own  soid  thou'dst  rescue  from  the  snare- 
Mount  In  the  breach !    Salvation's  onlv  there  !— 

Up!  Up! 


1  !:■ 
ill' 


I. 
1 


!;'  \ 


43 


■  H 


il 


lii 


k 


IvIKK'S     NOBUEST     HEIOHT«. 

ITIFE'S   noblest  heights  are  liiddeii  from   the  glooinless 
'^        dells  of  mirth  ; 

Yeurs,  that  bring  the  dim  skies  nearer,   bring  prophetic  vi- 
sions too : 
Down  into  our  soids  come  intimations  of  life's  worth, 
If  enshrined  within  our  hearts   there  live  the  Good   and 
True. 

Awhile  Earth's  gardens  bloom,  and  the  lofty  planets  burn; 
We  who  tread  this  molten  Earth  shall  see  their  tlames  ex- 
pire: 
In  the  cycles  vast  of  ruin,  we  alone  shall  ruin  spurn ; 
Life  immortal  shall  be  scatheless  amid  Time's  dissolving 

tire; — 
Even  unto  eternal  domes  of  glory  we  aspire. 


: 


['. 


H 


coiviiNa. 


*"Tis  comine !  Yes,  'tis  cominfj." — Gerald  Massey. 
••Hlazon'tl  on  lieavcii's  iiiiinortal   noon 
The  Cross  leads  jjenerations  on." — Shelley. 


fi 


() !  from  his  liastorn  Iiei^tit  subliiue, 

I  hear  the  herald's  joyous  warning : 
Day's  glory  deepens ! — far  upclinib 

The  rosy  splendors  of  the  morning ! 
See !  yon  triumphant  steeds  of  light 
Cliase  the  retreating  hosts  of  night ! 
The  valleys  sing,  the  hills  rejoice, 
And  sounds  aloft  one  cheering  Voice, — 
'•'Tis  coming!  Yes,  'tis  coming!" 

Brows,  bowed  so  long,  lift,  up  to  light, 
\ot  moist  with  unrequited  labor ; 
nd  hands  are  clasped — the  dark  and  white- 
The  bondman  is  the  friend  and  neighbor; 

And  his  own  brother  hath  forborne 

To  make  his  bruised  manhood  mourn  ; 

For,  travelling  through  the  shadowy  years. 

The  Just     Me  Merciful,  appears, — 
lieholi'      lie  Lord  is  coming! 


r    A 


jti' 

ni.. 


844 


COMING. 


'Tis  coming!  Yes,  our  night  of  tears 

Shall  fade  before  Immanuel's  glory, 
Which  now  to  gild  our  earth  appears, 

Foretold  in  ancient  song  and  story, — 
Foretold  in  that  seraphic  strain, 
With  notes  which  hannt  our  world  again, 
Though  heard  but  once,  and  silent  long ; — 
From  wailing  lips  a  triumph-song 
Shall  surely  soon  be  coming  ! 

'"Tis  coming  up  the  steep  of  Time" — 

The  Light  that  shall  illume  the  nations ! 
From  heiglit  to  height,  to  Virtue's  prime. 

The  Cross  leads  on  the  generations ; 
Till,  far  as  solar  beams  are  spread. 
The  heavenly  healing  shall  be  shed ; 
Till  at  His  feet  the  world  shall  fall, 
And  conquering  Christ  be  all  in  all. 
Amid  the  ages  coming ! 

"Tis  coming  up  the  steep  of  Time  I" 

And  now  the  signal  note  is  flying 
From  land  to  laud,  froi:i  clime  to  clime. 

Mighty,  unfaltering,  undying! 
Redeeming  Truth's  inunortal  light, 
Faith's  triumph,  Love's  superior  miglit, — 
The  strength  of  thoughts  and  deeds  sublime. 
Are  coming  up  the  steep  of  time! — 
They're  coming  !    Yes,  they're  coming! 


A  CRY   KRONl  THE    UNEMPLOYED 

LABORER. 


3Z 

"TV"  ROM  the  stony  streets  of  cities  comes  a  wailing  and  a 
cry: 

''Tliere  is  freezing,  starving,  famine!  tliere  is  bread  we  can- 
not buy ! 

Sumptuously  the  palace  f.nreth.  for  no  dog  is  there,  unfed; 

But  they  weep — our  hungry  children  ! — and  we  cauuot  give 
them  bread! 

Chorus :    But  hark !  I  hear 
A  voice  of  cheer, 
Saying  that  not  all  of  hope  and  help  departs ; 
For  there  will  yet  be  work  enough  for  willing  hands  to 

do. 
And  there  will  yet  be  love  enough  for  honest  hearts. 

Do  they  prate  of  studious  leisure,  from  their  thrones  of  let- 
tered ease  ? 

What  Co  ?(."?  the  art  of  painter,  or  the  poet's  melodies? — 

We  are  weary — always  weurj'^,  when  our  moiling  days  are 
through ; 

And  we  count  it  well,  among  us,  when  we  have  our  work  to 
do! 


346  A  CBY  FROM  THE  UNEMPLOYED  LABOBEB. 


I  '\ 


Ah,  how  scant}'  is  the  pittance  I  and  how  grudgingly  'tis  paid ! 
You  would  not  so  treat  a  spaniel  that  you  wished  not  to 

degrade : 
Mention  not  your  sootliing  fancies ! — burning  hearts  can  they 

appease  ? 
Long  distress,  or  sheer  starvation — these  are  our  realities ! 


mi 


All  day  we've  toiled  like  demons,  but  from  us  ever  flow 
The  pleasure,  and  the  treasure,  while  the  wheels  and  spindles 

go: 
But  our  hearts  are  never  shielded  from  the  boding,  feverish, 

fear 
That  the  woeful  hour  of  hunger  is  forever  drawing  near. 

Ah,  once  they  loved  the  toiler ! — they  did  not  then  deny 
E'en  the  green  earth's  flowery  beauty,  and  the  splendor  of 

the  sky ; 
Nor  crush  for  gold  that  curseth,  the  heart  to  see  and  sing, 
And  the  spirit  that  delighteth  in  each  pure  and  noble  thing ! 


Then  Love  stood  in  tiie  gateway,  when  the  father  came  at 
eve, 

And  the  little  ones  came  running,  his  caresses  to  receive ; 

And  Love  lit  up  the  hearthstone,  when  the  mother's  con- 
stant smile 

Could  the  toiler's  weary  spirit  to  its  burden  reconcile." 


From  the  stony  streets  of  cities  swells  the  murmur  and  the 
cry: 

'"See  our  gaunt  and  hungry  children,  born  to  want  and  mis- 
ery! 


A  CRY  FROM  THE  UNEMPLOYED  LABORER.    ?A1 

Sumptuously  the  palace  fareth,  and  no  docj  is  there  unfed; 
But  men  cast  to  dogs  the  children,  and  to  dogs  the  children's 
bread!" 

Chorus :    But  hark !  I  hear 
A  voice  of  cheer. 
Singing  that  not  all  of  hope  and  help  departs ; 
For  there  will  yet  be  work  enough  for  willing  hands  to 
do. 
And  there  will  yet  be  love  enough  for  honest  hearts ! 


iili 


i'he:  wine. 


If 

f.'Al,'' 

m 


HE  Wine  I   the  Wine  I  How  in  the  beaker  bright 

It  sparkles  clear,  fulfilled  with  ruby  light! 
Yet,  touch  it  not  I    Voluptuous  Soul,  resign 
The  rosy  nectar!    Woe  is  in  the  Wine! 


The  Wine!  the  Wine!  Indeed  it  hath  delight- 
First  of  the  treacherous  joys  of  appetite  ; — 
Yet.  touch  it  not!   Just  now  the  leafy  vine 
Holds  purple  clusters,  sweeter  than  the  Wine. 

The  Wine  I  the  Wine!  Doth  Bacchus  give  high  spare 

For  mental  power,  or  spiritual  grace  V 

O  royal  Hebrew,  tirst  to  rule  and  shine 

In  Chaldee  courts — th<ni  spurnest  the  King's  Wine ! 

The  Wine!  the  Wine!  O  man.  wilt  thou  destroy 
Thy  nobler  nature  for  one  fleeting  joy? 
Wilt  thou,  fond  careless  warbler!  »iot  forbear 
The  siren's  licjuid  blush,  and  shun  l    ;  snare? 

The  Wine!  the  Wine!   Poet,  tliou  dost  require 

A  purer  llanie,  and  a  iliviner  lire  : 

Minglest  the  lotos  with  thy  wreath?  dost  twiin- 

Fire-flowers?    Beware!   there's  wei^ping  in  the  Wine! 


THE    WINE. 


The  Wine !  the  Wine !     Lithe  Proteus,  scintillant 
Of  wit  and  mirth,  and  song;  that  still  dost  haunt 
Ihy  purple  deep-thou  burncst  in  the  brain 
And  o'er  the  heart  dost  sure  dominion  gain.' 

The  Wine !  the  Wine !     flow  in  the  beaker  bright 
It  sparkles  clear,  f ultilled  with  ruby  light ' 
Yet,  toucli  it  not !  Voluptuous  Soul,  resign 
1  he  rosy  nectar !     Woe  is  in  the  Wine  ' 


349 


44 


REKORMER'S     HYMN. 


e 


IFT  up  the  fallen  from  the  dust. 
Thy  brother's  sinking  soul  sustain; 
Pell  him  in  whom  the  wretched  trust, 
When  all  the  help  of  man  is  vain. 


Go!  raise  him  up,  and  gently  speak, 
And  whisper  hope — the  task  is  thine! 

For  God  is  strong,  when  man  is  weak, 
And  help  is  in  the  Arm  Divine. 

Go!  and  the  tearful  wife  shall  smile. 

And  grateful  ehildren  bless  thy  name; 
And  man  shall  bless  tliee  that  thj'^  toil 

Hath  saved  him  from  a  death  of  shame. 

Go !  and  to  recompense  thee,  lind 
What  rich  rewards  thy  toil  repay, — 

The  L'onstant.  self-approving  mind. 
The  crown  that  fadeth  not  away. 


Rl   !i 


BKXXER. 


¥ 


OR  him  who  wills  to  be  a  tnaii, 
Who  says:   ••!  can. 
Through  the  heart's  lire,  the  miners  docility. 
Fashion  my  life  to  God's  imperial  plan,"— 
There  waits  the  gracious  ability ; 
Down-reached,  a  bright. 
Strong  Hand,  shall  light 
And  lead  his  nature  up  to  nobler  height. 

For  him,  long  valiant  in  the  strife— 
The  restless  struggle  we  call  Life— 
Who  treads  on  Ease,  and  scourges  Pleasure  down, 

There  crystalizes  a  crown, 
Jewel  by  jewel,  and  grain  by  grain. 
Of  the  gold  of  toil,  and  the  pearls  of  pain— 
A  high  reward— a  deathless  gain— 

The  summit  of  renown. 

For  him  who  can 
With  multitudinous  deed. 
Simple  and  pure,  lill  up  this  breathing  span ; 
Who  deems  it  best  to  work,  nor  wait 


362 


BETTER. 


Till  the  divinity  within  abate; 
Wlio  aims  to  do, 
Yet  never  seeks  ignobly  to  succeed, — 
For  him,  his  dreams  of  high  accomplish'd  things  come  true. 


Better,  for  him  who  can 

(Who  can  is  he  who  wills^) — 
Drive,  with  his  winnowing  fan, 

The  chaft'  of  choking  ills ; 
And  be  the  lofty-lowly  man, 
With  an  inspiring  presence,  like  the  hills 
Whose  freshing  faces  morning  fills. 
Joyous  and  wholesome ;  he  who  sees  it  ever 
Better  to  hold  to  nature's  truth,  and  lean  to  falsehood  never; 
Better  to  brace  the  courage  tirm,  than  to  let  the  spirit  waver. 


|:  I 


I 


To  him  they  seem 

Most  true,  most  real — the  supreme 
Ideals,  men  have  counted  as  the  poet's  dream  : 
Better,  the  glow  of  the  heart — the  mind's  inspiring  hint 
Of  the  rising  sun  of  truth — than  the  golden  fruit  of  the  mint ; 
Better,  when  some  dare  doubt,  for  him  to  hope  and  trust ; 
Better  to  say  "I  Wi7Z,"  than  to  sigh,  '*Alas!  1  miistV — 
Better  to  serve  the  Moor  than  a  tyrannizing  Lust; 
Better,  ever  and  ever,  the  honor  of  a  man. 
Than  place,  or  pelf,  or  bravos  of  the  shouting  clamorous  clan  : 
Better  the  cheek  that  turns,  than  the  hand  that  smites ; 
Better  the  Uower  that  blooms,  than  the  worm  that  blights ; 
And  better  trodden  Virtue,  than  the  spoiler  of  hearts  and 

rights.  • 

Better,  for  him  who  believeth 
Salvation's  wondrous  plan ; 
Who  this  matchless  truth  recciveth, 


BETTER. 


That  Earth  hath  had  her  pure  ami  i)erfect  Man, 
Who  ever  lives — who  lived  ere  time  began; 

Who  had  His  sway  o'er  hearts,  and  was 
A  cheerer  of  the  souls  of  men ; 

While  bathed  in  Galilean  surf, 

Or  planted  on  Jndean  turf, 

His  feet  than  pearls  more  white  and  fair, 

Like  open  lilies,  holy  were ; — 
Whose  hallowed  duties  knew  no  pause ; 
Whose  Light  ne'er  veiled  its  golden  benison. 


'■  I 


Better,  for  him  whose  faith  can  see 

Dim  through  the  Ileaven-eoncerted  plan, 
How  Man  sublimes  to  Deity, 
And  God  descends  to  Man  : 
And  better,  he,  who  hath  the  call 
Of  Him  who  lived  and  died  for  all, 
Should  such  unfaltering  steps  pursue, 
And  keep  such  glorious  end  in  view, 
Than  sit,  a  gloomy  lord. 
In  iron  state,  abhor'd, 
Holding  o'er  abject  slaves  an  undisputed  sway. 


Better,  for  him  with  whom  the  Truth  is  Might ; 
Whose  constant  soul  is  wedded  to  the  Right ; 
Who  keeps  the  Fit  and  Beautiful  in  sight ; 

Who  Wisdom  weds, 

And  Light  sheds, 

And  Love  inspires, — 
Kindling  in  generous  minds  contagious  lires 

Of  Zeal 

For  common  weal; 

Who  Wrath  controls, 
Hearing,  with  lofty  meekness,  the  taunt  of  little  souls. 


364 


liETTEIi. 


Better,  the  Spirit'8  grace 

In  his  heart  to  dwell, 
And  shine  upon  his  face, 

A  beauteous  miracle. 
Than  if  all  lights  in  space-— 

Than  if  all  beams  in  air, 
Had  slipped  down  from  their  place, 

And  softly  gathered  there. 


Better,  our  evening  glow 
Than  our  dawning  ray. 
When  tranquil  pleasures,  thoughts  that  softly  How 
Fulfil  life's  latest  day. 
Happy,  he  girds  him  to  depart 
To  that  blest  region  where  his  heart 
Has  stored  its  treasure :  gently  age 
Leads  to  the  green  goal  of  life's  pilgrimage 
Heaven's  favored  son. 
Whose  crown  is  won. 
On  wiiose  pure  eye 
There  lights  the  radiance  of  eternity : — 
He  fought  the  fight. 
He  led  the  way, 
And  souls  astray 
Came  upward  to  his  cheering  light : 
And  men  shall  say, — 
Our  paths  are  holier,  less  dim 
Our  doubtful  hopes,  because  of  him  : 
Of  him  with  grateful  tongues  our  sons  shall  tell : 
His  praise  shall  be 
In  memory. 
And  in  the  hearts  of  righteous  men  below; 
Nor,  at  thejuster  seat  to  which  we  go, 
Will  Heaven  award  him  iW,  who  worketh  well. 


A  WISH    KOR  REN^KIVTRRANCE. 


"Are  not  all  things  born  to  be  forfjotttii?  Have  I   done  cnougli  to  securt 

myself  a  reputation  of  a  thousand   years?  Well,   but    what   is  a  thousand 

years,  alter  all,  or  twice  a  thousand  years?  Woe  is  me!     I  may  just  as   well 
sit  still." — Borroiv^s   "  LuTen^ro.'' 

t  — 

'¥*N  that  last  hour  of  agony 

y  When  lie  was  lifted  up  to  die 
Wlio  did  our  sins  and  sorrows  bear; 
A  plaintive  voice  rose  on  the  air, 
Where  darkling  stood  the  crosses  three. — 
••  When  in  Thy  Khiydoia,  Lord,  rememher  me  /" 

So  I,  O  pitying  Christ!  am  fain- 
Out  of  my  loneliness  and  pain  ; 
Or  where  they  still  the  cross  prepare. 
And  Hatred  curses,  and  Despair — 
To  lift  my  sorrowing  eyes  to  Thee, 
And  cry  ''O  Lord.,  at  last,  remember  me  T 

And  is  it  then,  our  mortal  lot 
To  be.  so  soon,  on  earth  forgot? 


I.  Written  in  Cambridge,  Mass.,  one  Sabbath  evening  in  the  Summer  of 
1S69,  after  listening  to  a  sermon  from  tlie  words  "Iteinfinber  me,  when 
thoxi  comest  into  Thy  Kingdom." 


866 


A   WISH  FOR  HEMKMBHANCE. 


Must  wo,  who  seek  to  mako  nur  worth 
A  pniiso  and  ^loiy  on  the  earth, 
Lie,  unroiiiemberM.  in  tlie  (hist? — 
Forget  us  not,  thou  Merciful,  and  Just! 

No  tablet,  or  memorial  stone. 
Can  make  me  long  belovd,  or  known; 
The  boon  no  graven  llnds  can  give 
Ever  In  memory  to  live ; 

But  tlovvcrs  inuHt  spring,  and  grass  grow  green 
O'er  him  who  lies  forgotten  and  unseen. 

Away!  delusive  hope,  away! — 
That  man,  the;  creature  of  a  day, 
May  ever,  in  his  highest  pride 
Of  thought,  achieve  what  may  abide ! 
lie  dies! — his  works  shall  perish  too — 
Oblivion  buries  all  that  he  can  do. 


Illustrious  day,  and  starry  night 
See  manhood  pale  Its  little  light : 
The  hills,  the  solemn  solitudes. 
The  restless,  thunder-sounding  floods, 
Endure,  the  same ;  but  not  to  me 
liemains  an  earthly  immortality. 

Nor  yet,  this  universal  frame 
From  ancient  years,  remains  the  same ; 
Its  temples  hasten  to  decay, 
And  it  shall  change  and  pass  away: 
Ah,  that  I  may  my  lot  secure 
Where  life  is  permanent,  and  can  endure! 

For,  O  my  God !  it  shall  be  well 
If  I  in  Th'j  remembrance  dwell; 


A    WISH  FOR  liEMEMHIiANCE. 


JWI 


Whether  tho  sea  shall  hill  my  rest 
Or  earth  ei.fohl  me  in  her  breast.- 
NVhate'er  my  fate,  howe'er  my  h)t 
"n«  well,  if  Th,n,  fo,.p,t  Thy  ereature  „ot. 

I  ask  no  fame,  but  this,-that  [ 
In  God's  remembrance  may  not  die  • 
But.  with  Ills  rl^ri.teoiis  children,  be 
In  lovin^r  thought  perpefnally; 
Then  I  can  eartldy  life  fore^r,), 
U'irh  every  hop,,  of  memory  h,.Iow 


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45 


m 


m' 


DEUS     DESCENSUS. 


kS 


HE  Loi  1    !  His  ^lory  d«>scnn(lod  ; 

Tho  darkness  was  imdor  His  feet. 
VV  ith  clouds,  and  witii  liglitnings  all  splendid. 

And  angels,  majestif'  and  fleet; 
Tlie  chariot-winds.  In  their  fury. 

Came  bearing  their  Monarch  abroad. 
And  pinions  cherubic  did  carry 

Their  awful,  omnipotent  God. 


The  Lord  from  His  glory  descended; 

And  once  in  a  nmnger  forlorn, 
p]rc  the  concert  angelie  was  ended, 

A  wonderful  Infant  was  born. 
Behold  Him,  ye  sages!  reposing. 

With  (]uiet  and  beautifiU  face, 
Who  soon  shall  redeem  us.  disclosing 

The  tre.'isures  of  wisdom  and  grace! 

The  Lord  to  His  glory  ascended ; 

But  still  He  goes  viewlessh  forth. 
Where  lie,  in  their  darkness  extended 

The  kingdoms  and  climes  of  the  earth. 


DEU8  DESCEFSUii. 


359 


He  liveth,  our  Uelp,  our  Defender, 

Forever  and  ever  adored ; 
And  He  to  the  ri.''hteous  will  njiider 

A  sure  and  exttMnling  reward. 

The  Lord  in  His  glory  descended ; 

Behold  I  for  he  cometh  again, 
With  legions  of  angels  attended. 

Forever  to  rule  and  to  reign  I 
Behold  I  for  to  judgment  He  conicth, 

With  ]ove  and  with  wrath  in  His  eyes ; 
The  lost  to  perdition  He  dooniefch. 

But  crowueth  the  just  in  the  skies! 


THE    UNIVERSAL    HOPE. 


'^  ; 


-  ^1 

m 


^ 


"From  this  earth,  this  grave,  this  dust. 
My  God  shall  raise  me  up,  I  trust!" 

—Sir   Walter  Raleigh. 


EA.  I  shuH  rise,  from  the  decay,  the  gloom. 
The  waste,  the  wintry  slumber  of  the  tomb, 

When  sounds  that  lleaven-born  Voice  of  sweet- 
est power! — 
Above  my  senseless  dust  the  skies  may  lower, 
And  sweeping  tempests  sound  a  note  of  doom; 
I  shall  securely  wait  for  my  appointed  hour. 

Then  1  shall  rise  I    ()  let  no  envious  doubt 
Enter  my  heart  to  shut  tiie  promise  out — 
No  dark-brow'd  sophist  steal  my  faith  from  me  I 
For  I  the  face  of  llim  I  love  shall  see. 
When,  at  the  dread  art  hangels  trumpet-shout, 
1  wake  to  new-born  life — to  Immortality ! 

/  shall  awake !    For  my  Redeemer  came, 
Ere  morning's  eastern  gate  was  tonch'd  with  flame. 
Up  from  the  rock-hewn  portal  of  the  to«ab  : 
My  faded  llower  of  life  shall  spring  to   bloom  : 


THE  UNIVERSAL  HOPE. 


361 


And  I  shall  praise  His  Everlasting  Name, 
When  He,  for  me,  shall  break  the  awful,  lingering 
gloom ! 

Will  it  be  long?    Shall  seasons  bloom  and  fade, 
And  generations  in  their  graves  be  laid. 

And  empires  rise  and  fall,  before  that  time? — 
Shall  the  rank  grass  and  brier,  in  summer,  climb 
Above  my  crumbling  stone ;  or  darker  shade 
Cover  my  aslK^s  o'er,  and  breathe  the  wintry  rime? 

I  know  not;  yet  this  darkened  dust  of  mine. 
Bathed  in  the  glory  of  that  day  shall  shine : 
The  worm  may  fret  these  cheeks ;  these  eyes 

decay 
May  waste,  as  the  great  ages  roll  away ; 
Yet,  in  my  flesh,  illustrious  and  divine. 
Shall  1  my  God  behold,  and  hail  the  tiual  day! 


Sharp  Arrows. 


BY  REV.  J.  H.  MOOERS. 


A  unique,  book  of  424  pages,  handsome.hj  hound  in  cloth.     Full  of 

keen,  crisp,  best  things  for  those  v^ho  wish  to  load  heavily, 

fire  straight,  and  hit  the  mark. 

It  contains  an  Introduction  by  '''  Chaplain"  McCabe,  and  nearly 

100  pages  of  select  poetry. 


It  pivcs  iiif  pleasure  to  most  heartily  commend  "  Sharp  Arrows."  Its  struc- 
ture is  not  scrmonic,  neither  is  it  a  mere  accimiulation  of  wise  sayinfjs  upon 
important  subjects  ;  hut  it  contains  just  enoutrh  of  what  is  best  in  both  to  make 
its  publication  very  desirable.  Such  a  work  would  have  been  almost  a  library 
to  me  had  I  possessed  it  at  the  bcjjinniiip  of  my  ministry. 

Rev.  C.  A.  \'an  Anda,  D.  D.,  Minneapolis,  Minn. 


The  ''Nimrods"  of  the  (Jospel  have  in  this  bo(^k  a  quiver  full  of  arrows 
such  as  "mighty  hunters"  ought  to  possess.  It  is  full  ot  the  wise  and  powerful 
sayings  of  great  men,  written  or  uttered  in  their  best  moods. 

C.  C.  McCaiie. 


"Sharp  Arrows"  fills  a  gap  in  homiletical  literature  hitherto  unfilled ;  and 
pastors,  evangelists,  temperance  lecturers,  .Sunday  school  teacht  s  and  all 
Christian  workers  must  be  fully  impressed  with  its  great  value  at  sight. 

Rev.  A.   D.  Dextek.  Pastor  of  M.  K.  Church,  Monroe,  Wis. 


I  have  examined  "Sharp  Arrows"  with  deliglit  and  sincerely  hope  that  I 
shall  soon  possess  a  full  quiver  of  them.  It  is  a  Library  of  brilliant  seed- 
thoughts,  tlusteriiig  around  centers  of  Sacred  Truth.  1  can  think  of  nc-thing 
better  calculated  to  stir  the  blood,  and  set  the  mental  machinery  in  motion. 

E.   L.  Eaton,  V.  K.  Madison,  Wis. 


May  he  obtained  from  the  author.  Sionx   Fulls,  Dakota,  price 
^1.50. 


